


Sight Unseen

by Brumeier



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Diary/Journal, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Medication, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 16:49:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15005162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/pseuds/Brumeier
Summary: After John's ignominious departure from the Air Force he rents a beach cottage in Oregon, a quiet place to work on his PTSD and figure out what's next in his life. But after he finds a journal left by the previous occupant, John develops an irrational connection to Rodney McKay. When Rodney shows up on his doorstep after having been missing for two years and dealing with his own trauma, can they co-exist at the cottage?





	Sight Unseen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taste_is_Sweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/gifts).



> Originally posted back in 2013 as part of my [Through the Gate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/638305/chapters/1156813) series. I’m reposting now in honor of Taste_is_Sweet’s birthday, because she loves this fic so much.

John sat on the steps of the front porch of his newly rented cottage. He hadn’t been to Cannon Beach since he was a kid and it was every bit as cool as he remembered. He’d gotten lucky, finding this property; it was isolated on three sides by tall pine trees and fronted the beach, with an excellent view of Haystack Rock. Hopefully the soothing sound of the waves lapping at the shore would help him sleep through the night; he really wanted to stop taking the sleeping pills.

The cottage was bigger than he needed, two bedrooms plus a nicely outfitted study. The whole thing had come furnished, which was good since he hadn’t had much to bring with him; just a duffle bag, an old trunk and his guitar. John’s lease was good for a year, which he hoped would give him ample time to figure out what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. Good thing he had plenty of service pay saved up; he wasn’t about to go begging to his father. 

After another twenty minutes or so, John got to his feet and went back inside. There was a bag of groceries from Safeway that needed to be put away, and just thinking about food made his stomach rumble. It was well after lunch but not soon enough for dinner, so he slapped together a turkey sandwich and wandered around the first floor.

The hardwood floors were polished to a warm sheen, and there was a fieldstone fireplace in the living room. A massive floor to ceiling bookshelf was crowded with books, everything from Lee Child to Stephen Hawking to Charles Dickens and even several large astrophysics, mathematics, and engineering textbooks; John certainly wouldn’t be lacking for reading material.

The kitchen was small but serviceable: electric stove, side-by-side fridge with an ice maker, small dishwasher, and granite countertops. The best feature was the alcove that held the oak table and four matching chairs; it was five sided, four of the sides holding tall windows and the fifth a French door that led out to the porch. John could easily imagine sitting there in the mornings, watching the sun come up while he drank his coffee.

Half bath and study completed the downstairs, and John was especially taken with the study. The walls were paneled in light wood, the floor covered in plush tan carpeting that his feet sunk into. Various seascapes hung on the walls interspersed between even more full bookshelves, and the room was dominated by a huge oak desk; the only thing on it was a jar of multi-colored sand. It was the perfect surface for puzzles or model airplanes or beer pong.

John finished up his sandwich, amusing himself with all the domestic things he could fill his time with. He wasn’t great with downtime. When he was still in the Air Force his work kept him pretty busy, and the nights he didn’t were usually spent out drinking with his buddies. The long, empty days that stretched out before him now were both terrifying and full of possibility.

He thought about the rest of the unpacking still left to do and decided to put it off for a while. It’s not like he had a busy schedule. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and tossed it carelessly on the kitchen counter. He’d declined to have the landline phone hooked up – not that he expected anyone to call – and had no need for cable either, not as long as he had WiFi, DVDs, and the Wii to play golf on.

John kicked off his sneakers and headed back outside. He walked down the beach, careful to keep away from the crowded areas. The temperature was only in the high sixties, about normal for June or so he’d been told by the real estate agent, but there were plenty of people spread out along the shore and wading out into the water. There was little here to remind him of Afghanistan and it was a damn sight warmer than McMurdo. That had only been a pity offer anyway, he wasn’t stupid. 

“Shit,” he muttered to himself. He didn’t want to start thinking about that. He turned and went back to the cottage. He’d make a full exploration of his new home and then distract himself with some Battlestar Galactica. No beer, though. It wasn’t a good time for beer.

*o*o*o*

John woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and panting. He pressed his hand over his heart, trying to keep it from bursting right out of his chest. He forced himself to take deep breaths, forced himself to listen for the sound of the waves through his open window. He glanced at the nightstand, faintly illuminated by the LED nightlight plugged in across the room, and briefly contemplated taking an Ambien. Once he calmed himself down he decided not to. He didn’t like how they made him feel the next day.

With a sigh he shuffled into the bathroom, splashed some cold water on his face, and stripped off the damp t-shirt. He stood there for a while, hands braced on the sink, and studied his reflection in the mirror. Shadows under his eyes stood out starkly against his pale skin. His hair, which was always just a little too long, stood up in wild spikes. 

“You look like crap,” John told himself. 

He turned off the bathroom light and didn’t even give his bed a backward glance as he headed downstairs. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. He headed for the kitchen, wood floors cool beneath his bare feet, and poured himself a glass of water from the tap. There were nightlights in every room and he tried hard not to feel self-conscious about them. His former therapist had always told him that he needed to cut himself some slack.

John wandered into the study, digging his toes into the thick carpet as soon as he crossed the threshold. He flicked on the overhead light, blinking for a minute as his eyes adjusted, and then opened the closet door. He’d noticed earlier that there was a box shoved in the back corner and having nothing better to do he pulled it out and set it on the desk.

There were no markings on the outside of the box and just one strip of packing tape holding it closed. He peeled the tape off and looked inside. He didn’t know what he was hoping for, but more books seemed a bit anticlimactic considering the vast amounts of the printed word just in that one room alone. John pulled them out anyway, grinning when he saw what they were. _The Science of Star Wars. The Complete Star Wars Encyclopedia. USS Enterprise Haynes Manual. The Star Trek Encyclopedia. The Real Science of Time Travel_. He wondered why they were packed away instead of out on the shelves.

The last book in the box was a leather-bound journal. John sat down behind the desk and shoved the other books off to the side. He had a moment to question whether he should even open it, but he couldn’t help being curious about the contents. He decided that if it was something too personal he’d pack it away and forget about it. He opened to the first page.

_This is the private journal of Dr. M. Rodney McKay, PhD, PhD. Under no circumstances do I authorize this to be published – that’s what my professional journals are for and I’ll find a way to sue your ass from beyond the grave so save yourself the aggravation and just…don’t._

_I’m writing this from the house I’ve just purchased in Cannon Beach, Oregon. It’s almost like being home, without all the reasons why I don’t go back there. Home being Canada. I have dual citizenship, amongst other things. This is my first piece of real estate and it was more satisfying than I thought it would be to see my name on the deed._

_It’s proving harder than I expected to get out of an institutional frame of mind. Not that I was institutionalized. Well, not in the way you’re probably thinking. I was teaching graduate studies at the California Institute of Technology. One of the top ranked universities in the country, of course. Strange now to sleep as long as I want and not have to be bothered with staff meetings, student meetings, grant proposals, dissertations, ridiculously tedious faculty banquets. Finally my genius will be put to better use._

_And no, I don’t use the term genius lightly. I have an IQ of 176, though it’s been several years since my last test so it’s possible I could be even smarter now, who knows? I’m going to be spreading my vast intelligence around, freelancing. I never had the proper time to do that while I was at CalTech, and there’s good money in it. Not that I’m in it for the money, you understand, but I don’t mind being comfortable while I improve…well, everything._

_This will have to do as an introductory entry. I have to buy some furniture, make this place livable. I have a contractor coming tomorrow to make some upgrades, particularly in the kitchen. This is my place and I want it to be perfect._

There was no date on the journal entry. John flipped through the pages and saw that was the case throughout. The margins were full, though, packed with various types of lists, equations, doodles, and random notes like _remember: green_ and _call Beverly_. John wondered how long ago Rodney McKay had lived in the cottage and why he wasn’t there anymore. Was all the furniture his? 

It was idle speculation. John supposed if he really got curious he could just talk to the realtor. In the meantime, he repacked the box and carried it up to the bedroom. The hours till dawn lit the sky were spent reading the Star Wars encyclopedia and chuckling at the comments someone – Rodney? – had written in the margins. _Han shot first, stop screwing with the movie. He’s a badass, not a pansy. / ___

____

*o*o*o*

It only took John an hour to get all his things unpacked and put away, and the bulk of that time was spent alphabetizing his DVDs. Once he had everything organized to his satisfaction he whipped up some scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast and sat watching the waves roll in from his kitchen table. He felt like he was able to breathe for the first time in months as he looked out and saw nothing but empty beach and wide ocean.

He spent part of the morning poking around the grounds, particularly the one-car garage that wasn’t much bigger than his Explorer. There was no workbench, no tools, not even a grease stain to show any other cars had ever been parked there. In a metal cabinet at the rear of the garage he found a first aid kit, a small fire extinguisher, and what looked like the guts of every small appliance known to man stuffed into boxes and plastic containers. A sealed coffee can held a stash of Skittles, which John wasn’t remotely interested in pilfering. Next to the cabinet was a portable Weber grill which, though ridiculously clean, had obviously been used.

“Who keeps their grill that clean?” he wondered aloud. Maybe it was Rodney McKay. That turned John’s thoughts back to the journal and he decided to break for lunch. He sat down at the kitchen table with burritos heated in the microwave and read.

_It’s Jeannie’s birthday today. I’ve picked up the phone a dozen times but I can’t make myself dial the stupid thing. It’s cowardly of me, I know, and I’m not proud of it. It’s like too much time has gone by and nothing I say now will make any difference. I do hope she’s happy, even if she’s doing the domestic thing instead of using the brain she was born with._

_The whole thing has left me feeling a little down. I hate personal introspection, it’s such a waste of time, but no matter what else I tried to work on today she just kept popping into my head. And, okay, maybe I’m a little jealous. Jeannie has a family. And I’ve got…_

_Anyway, I’ve already gotten a call from Richard Burgess at Darlington Electronics. They have a project they want to outsource to me. I gave him a ridiculous price and he agreed to it. I should’ve asked for more. But I can do the job from here and in less time then they’ve allotted._

_Met my left-side neighbors. I hope they don’t plan on frequent visits. The husband is an insufferable bore and his wife has all the brains of a house fly. All they wanted to talk about was the weather and all the cultural activities that Cannon Beach has to offer. Ha! I doubt the local playhouse is going to be hosting the philharmonic anytime soon. Once these freelance jobs start rolling in I’ll be able to travel to the cultural hotspots. Besides, that isn’t why I moved here._

_Tribby is settling in. He won’t go past the porch steps, but that’s okay with me. Wouldn’t want anything happening to him. I have to remember to get those soft treats he likes. Spoiled bastard. I only wish someone was at my beck and call the way I am for him. Then again, he didn’t seem particularly taken with the neighbors either, so there’s something to be said for his sense of character._

John set the journal aside and stared out the window. He wondered who Jeannie was. Ex-girlfriend? Relative? He could understand how Rodney was feeling. He’d been estranged from his family for too many years and there wasn’t much now that could make him approach them. It was sad how things changed. They’d been happy once, before John’s mom passed away. Before he’d blazed a path for himself that had veered away from the one his father had plotted out. What would Patrick Sheppard think of his son now?

Feeling suddenly twitchy and ill at ease, John dropped his plate in the sink and slammed out the front door. He popped open the back hatch of the truck and pulled out his guitar case, taking it to the back porch. There was a patio table and chairs out there, a little dusty but he didn’t care. He pulled his Gibson out of the case and just touching it took the tremors out of his hands.

He played without hooking it to the portable amplifier, which he’d left in the truck. It was enough to feel the strings beneath his fingers. He played _Folsom Prison Blues_ , humming along but not actually singing. He segued from that into _Hurt_ and by the time he was done his chest was so tight he didn’t even know how he was still breathing. John set aside the guitar and went to the kitchen for a beer. One turned into two turned into six, until he was sitting on the floor with his back against the fridge, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding in his sobs.

*o*o*o*

John slowly settled into a routine. He’d contacted a therapist up in Astoria and once a week he’d make the forty-minute drive. He didn’t talk much but still convinced Dr. Marshall to keep him on Ativan. He’d been on Clonidine but hated the regulated doses, and the Ativan he took only when he needed it. It was a small but important measure of control. He still didn’t spend any great amount of time in town, beyond grocery shopping, and so far none of his neighbors had come to welcome him to the neighborhood, which was just as well.

He sent away for a kit to build a remote-controlled Beechcraft bi-plane and started assembling it in the study. If that one worked out he had his eye on an F-16 kit that looked like it might be fun. When he wasn’t tinkering with the plane he was reading _War and Peace_ , which he’d found in the extensive library that came with the cottage. At least once a day he’d read an entry from Rodney’s journal.

_I’m thinking I should get a telescope. Do you think that’s a cliché for an astrophysicist? When I was a kid I loved looking up at the stars. I knew all the constellations by the time I was seven. I’ve seen the aurora borealis, meteor showers, comets, and eclipses, and I never get tired of it. Some of it is the math. The numbers of the universe are so big, endless lines of them. I wonder, sometimes, what it must be like for astronauts who get to float around up there, all the weight of the world literally sloughing off them._

_I’m in a strange mood today. Maybe I’ll go into town and poke around for a while. My supply of good coffee is almost gone and it’s remotely possible one of the specialty stores will carry something comparable. I suppose I could have Max send me some Kona beans but it probably isn’t good for me to stay in the house so much. This LexCorp project has hit a snag and stepping away from it for a little while could be useful, clear the head and all that. My need to justify going into town is bordering on pathetic._

_Tribby left a dead bird for me on the porch this morning. Disgusting way to demonstrate my inclusion into his tribe of one. There was no sense burying it, he’d just dig it up anyway, so I put on gloves and tossed it into the neighbor’s yard. Let them deal with it._

John nodded absently as he set aside the journal. He didn’t know why Rodney was reluctant to leave the house, although maybe it was just his big brain being unable to deal with regular human interaction. His own reasons were a bit more complex, but he didn’t want to come off as pathetic either, so he took a few deep breaths and then headed into town himself.

Cannon Beach was a resort town, cheerily picturesque for the tourists that came every summer and full of little specialty shops that all seemed to be aiming for quaint. John had missed the farmer’s market by two days and tried to remember to come back next Tuesday to see what they had. One of the things he wanted to work on was improving his cooking repertoire beyond the basics of sandwich making, eggs, and pasta. He went to Mariner Market and took some time contemplating the meat selections, finally choosing a small sirloin. He also picked up a propane canister for the grill, and some potato salad from the deli counter that didn’t look too vinegary. 

Recalling Rodney’s mention of coffee, John stowed the groceries in the truck and walked a little way down the street to Bella Espresso, a fancy coffee shop and wine bar. The smell of freshly brewed coffee was heavenly, and he took a minute to just breathe it all in before picking up a pound of ground beans and a chai latte to go. Back out on the sidewalk a plaintive squeak caught his attention. At one of the café tables set up outside was a teenage girl sitting cross-legged in a chair with a large cardboard box on the ground in front of her. Closer inspection showed little furballs inside.

“Hey, mister. You want a kitten? They’re free.” The girl sounded bored and John wondered how many people had stopped by to look but not take one home.

There were four kittens in the box, three of them curled up in a big ball in corner, which was lined with a scrunched up blue beach towel. The third kitten was orange with a hint of stripes, covered in lots of fur that stuck up in tufts, and was trying to climb his way out of his cardboard prison. John set down his latte and picked him up, wincing a bit as tiny claws dug into the skin on his hand.

“They’re Maine Coons,” the girl said, perking up a bit. “Litter trained and had all their booster shots already.”

“Cute,” John replied. The kitten made an awkward jump to his shoulder, clinging there by his claws. He thought about Rodney, who wrote frequently about Tribby; John assumed the animal was a cat, but Rodney never came out and said so. He thought maybe it would be nice to have another warm body in the cottage with him, someone to talk to besides himself.

“He’s a boy,” the girl said helpfully. “I think he already likes you.”

That certainly seemed to be the case. Once John gave the little furball a boost with his hand, it settled on his shoulder and did its best parrot imitation. 

“Guess I’d better take him then,” he said to the girl. She grinned back at him.

“Thanks! Hey, if you know anyone else that’s looking for a kitten tell them where to find me.”

“I sure will.” John grabbed up his latte and made his way back to his truck. It was turning out to be a pretty good day. He just needed to go back to the market for some cat supplies.

He was almost at the truck when a high-pitched scream rent the air. John froze and his hands spasmed, sending the latte to the sidewalk where it splashed over his sneakers. He dropped into a crouch, only dimly aware of pain in his shoulder at the kitten dug in, squeaking in protest. 

_John kept his head down, taking cover behind the still-smoking remains of the Humvee. Wilson was screaming, the sound of it going through John’s head like a spike, but there was nothing he could do for the kid. If he didn’t get back to the Black Hawk they’d all be dead, and he wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction._

_While he waited for his moment, weapon up and ready, blowing sand stung the exposed bits of skin on his face. His heart was pounding, and he willed himself to focus, to stuff down the panic and the horror; it wasn’t productive, not when they were counting on him. Jesus, he wished Wilson would shut the fuck up already._

John suddenly became aware that someone was talking to him, a woman. Her voice cut through the layers of panic and noise in his head until it all backed off, leaving him disoriented and a little dizzy.

“You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay. Sir? Do you know where you are?”

He realized he was squatting behind one of the wire mesh wastebaskets that were placed at regular intervals up and down the street, and his face flamed with embarrassment. A woman was crouched beside him, the expression on her face concerned but not horrified or amused as he’d expected it might be.

“Sir? Can you tell me your name?”

“John. It’s John.”

“Hi, John. My name’s Maggie. Do you know where you are?”

He looked around, and suddenly everything snapped firmly into place. Gone were the sand dunes and Wilson’s death screams and the hot, oppressive air. Now he could taste the salt, hear the sound of the waves coming from just over two blocks away.

“John?”

“Cannon Beach,” he said. His throat was dry, and he could feel the phantom grit of sand against his skin.

“Think you can get up?” Maggie stood and offered him a hand. He accepted it and got to his feet, just a little shaky, and saw that she had his kitten cradled in the crook of her arm.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, looking down at his latte-stained sneakers. His skin was still jittery with nerves and remembered adrenalin and he just wanted to go home. Luckily, he hadn’t seemed to have drawn a crowd.

“You don’t have to be sorry.” Maggie put two fingers under his chin and lifted his head up until he was looking right at her. She had pretty brown eyes and dark brown hair pulled up into a ponytail. John estimated that she was somewhere in her forties. She wore running shorts and a tank top, MP3 player strapped to her bicep; the headphones were draped around her neck.

“Are you okay to drive?” she asked.

“Yeah. I think so. I have to stop at the store for…” He waved his hand in the direction of the kitten.

Maggie nodded. “I figured this was one of Kerry’s. Tell you what, I’ll come with you. We’ll pick up what you need at the store and then I’ll make sure you get home okay.”

“You don’t have to do that.” John felt bad enough for having made a spectacle of himself in the middle of the street, no sense compounding it by needing a babysitter.

“I know I don’t.” Maggie retrieved his bag of coffee and handed it to him. “What branch of the service were you in?”

He glanced over at her, surprised. “Air Force.”

“My brother was in the Marine Corps. He was discharged almost four years ago, but he’s still working through the PTSD.”

Well, that explained why she hadn’t been freaked out, and why she was being so nice to him now. They walked in silence back to the market, and John’s truck. He stowed the coffee but took possession of the kitten and brought him in with them. It didn’t take long to pick out a litter box and everything associated with it, plus some kitten kibble and a couple of small stainless-steel bowls.

“Do you have a name for him yet?” Maggie asked, scratching the kitten behind one ear while John checked out.

“No. I figured I’d spend some time with him and see what name seems to fit his personality.”

“Well, just don’t give him a color name. I’ve always thought that’s so lazy. Blackie, brownie, snowball, that kind of thing.”

John was surprised to find himself chuckling, almost as if he hadn’t just lost his shit in front of all of Cannon Beach. “I’ll try to stay away from Ginger.”

“Good man,” Maggie said with an approving nod. She snagged his receipt as the cashier was handing it over and wrote on the back of it with a pen also appropriated from the cashier. “This is my cell number. Any time you want to talk – about _anything_ – you give me a call.”

John took it and tucked it in his pants pocket. “Thanks. Really.”

“If I’d had more warning I’d have welcomed you to town earlier, and with a cake or something.” Maggie walked with him out to the parking lot. “Do you have a place in town?”

John stowed his groceries. “Beach cottage, actually. Rodney McKay’s old place?” He wasn’t sure what made him say that, but now he was curious to see if Maggie knew the name.

“Oh, Dr. McKay? I’m glad they’re finally renting that, it was a shame to have it empty so long.”

“Did you know him?” John leaned against the open door. 

“Not really. He was rather infamous around here for his bad temper and miserable people skills.” Maggie looked thoughtful. “He left about, oh, two years ago I’d say. Rather suddenly, from what I understand. Left almost everything behind. Caused a bit of a stir at the time, lots of speculation, but I guess he just got a good job offer and had to leave in a hurry.”

“Oh. Well…um…thanks again.”

Maggie put a hand on his arm. “Are you getting some help?”

He nodded, and felt a blush rising up his neck again. He knew logically that there was nothing wrong with being in therapy but couldn’t help feeling that it marked him as being less capable, like he couldn’t just shrug off the past and focus on the present.

“Well, remember what I said.”

John got in the truck and with a deep sigh of relief pointed it towards the cottage. He didn’t care if he had to live on saltines for the next couple of weeks, he wasn’t going to leave the house except for his therapy appointments. The kitten mewed at him from the passenger seat.

“You have no idea,” he replied.

*o*o*o*

The kitten turned out to like heights – and glaring down from them like a vulture – so much so that he reminded John of the old Peanuts comic strip. Which is how an orange kitten with tufty ears and oversized paws came to be called Snoopy. He didn’t seem to take any offense at being named after a dog.

John found it kind of nice having Snoopy around the house. Sometimes they’d nap together on the couch, the cat curled up tightly on his chest, and he’d even turned out to be fairly consistent at playing fetch with a crumpled-up piece of paper. It was feeling a little less lonely in the cottage, although part of that new, fuller space had been taken up by a man John had never met. He’d be reading something, or watching something, and think _I wonder what Rodney would say about that_.

He tried not to feel too weird about it. Most men his age didn’t have imaginary friends, but it wasn’t like he was pretending that Rodney was there in the room with him. It was more like he was an old friend from college, one John hadn’t seen in a long time but had fond memories of and thought about from time to time.

The journal had given him a good idea – or so he surmised – about the kind of person Rodney McKay, double PhD, was. Smart, with a dry wit and a sarcastic tongue. He didn’t suffer fools gladly, but he had almost no sense of his own personal worth outside of his intellect. The pages of the journal were filled with absences – no friends, no colleagues since he worked from home, not even any family that he had regular contact with. A lonely man, with no-one around to appreciate what he had to offer. Well, no-one besides John who felt a kinship with him he never had for anyone else.

He’d Googled Rodney one night when he couldn’t sleep. There were links for various professional journals, most of which you needed a subscription to if you wanted to read the articles, and he could only guess which ones belonged to his Rodney and which were other, random Rodney McKays. On the CalTech website he found a picture and spent a long time looking at it. It was a candid shot, part of the Physics department photo album, of Rodney in the middle of giving a lecture, his hands blurry as he was caught in the middle of gesturing about something. He had a strong face, broad shoulders. Bit of a receding hairline, and the picture wasn’t good enough to make out his eye color. He tried to imagine Rodney sitting in the study, writing in his journal. Without even thinking about it he right-clicked on the picture and saved it to his desktop.

There was also a mystery he hoped to solve: namely, where Rodney had disappeared to and why. It was hard not to skip ahead to see if there were any clues, but John was rationing the journal. He wasn’t ready to get to the end of it yet.

_Went into town today. Had a cup of coffee that didn’t suck. The place is lousy with tourists, I don’t know how the regulars stand them. This is just another reason why I stay at home. I wouldn’t be surprised if being around that much banality sucks away IQ points every time I go out. It’s quite possible that Oregon is going to make me stupid._

_There was a gay couple at that vegetarian café. They weren’t particularly overt about it, but I could tell. It was in the looks they gave each other, the way they kept close enough so that they were always touching. If anyone else noticed they didn’t seem take offense; you just never know how people are going to react to two men being close like that. Maybe things are just different beachside._

_After I saw them I felt a little like I was having an adverse allergic reaction. I think I was just jealous. Tribby is good company most days, but nothing like another warm body. Some days…well, let’s just say that while there may be someone out there for everyone, I’m starting to doubt my inclusion in that pithy little proverb. I wonder sometimes if my genius precludes me having anything else. Most days that’s fine with me, it really is._

_Turned down a government contract. It was military and I absolutely refuse to work on weapons systems. I don’t care how pretty they make the package, I do have standards. Not many, but the ones I do have I stick with. I worked with a biochemist once. They turned his project into a deadly weapon, one that killed people, and it wrecked him. I’m not going down that road. There’s nothing they could offer me to make me change my mind._

*o*o*o*

Thunder rumbled overhead, the roiling clouds making mid-afternoon look like twilight. Rain fell from the sky in sheets, blown against the cottage by the gale force winds. John huddled in his bed, lights blazing. The nightstand was covered with candles, lighters, and his big Maglite just in case the power went out. He’d already had an Ativan, which helped keep the thunder mostly sounding like a force of nature instead of an echo of mortars.

Storms never used to bother John. As a kid he always watched from the veranda as the black clouds rolled in, counting the time between lightning and thunder. As a pilot he’d flown through his fair share of them, which always pumped up the adrenalin and made the ride all the wilder. Now, though, painful memories rode in on the lightning and made him want to cover his head and curl into a little ball until it was over.

The day had started out pretty well, too. Maggie had stopped by, bringing brownies, and invited John to her house on Saturday for a BBQ and to meet her husband and kids. It should’ve been awkward, since the only other time they’d seen each other had been when he lost his shit in the middle of the sidewalk, but somehow Maggie made it easy. Maybe that was why he’d accepted her invite when normally he’d have made some kind of excuse not to go. Or maybe it was because she’d brought a catnip ball for Snoopy.

Another clap of thunder rattled the windows and John clutched Rodney’s journal tighter. The weather certainly wasn’t bothering the stupid kitten, who was perched precariously on the headboard of the big sleigh bed and purring contentedly. 

He reached for the bottle of water propped up beside him in the bed; the Ativan made him thirsty as hell. Then he opened the journal and started to read, his reward for not having a big storm freak-out.

_I should’ve known they wouldn’t take no for an answer. More representatives from the US military showed up on my doorstep, one of them a very attractive blonde who is absolutely wasting her intellect working with jarheads. She didn’t seem to appreciate the heads up._

_They’re interested in my work on wormhole theory and I can’t see any particular reason for that unless it’s to use it as some sort of weapon. If they could harness the power of it, contain it somehow, it would be devastating. I told the pretty Major that and told the rest they could fuck off. Dr. Rodney McKay has never and will never work on weapons systems. The end. Thank you for coming._

_I can’t help being curious, though. There are of course other applications for wormhole technology. Just in terms of exploration alone, it would open up the entire universe. Imagine what might be out there, the knowledge we could get from races far more advanced than our own. Which, yes, I realize is very Star Trekkie of me, and as soon as there’s the hint of military or government involvement it would all go straight to hell, but a man can dream._

_The military envoys eventually left, but Major Hotlips intimated that they’d be back. I don’t know what they think they have to offer that would make me come on board. They already brought the promise of vast sums of money, working with top minds in my field, the opportunity to do exciting work, blah blah blah. I mean, that’s pretty good incentive, right? It would beat the hell out of some of these corporate jobs. Oh, well, it’s a moot point because there’s no way I’m saying yes. They can have a damned parade in my honor through the living room and the answer will still be no._

John was glad that Rodney was standing firm, but he had a bad feeling. In his experience, if the military wanted something bad enough they’d get it regardless of the means. Was that why Rodney had up and disappeared two years ago? Had they just come and taken him away to work on secret projects? He sincerely hoped not. Maybe he’d gone into hiding to avoid just that scenario. 

Normally he didn’t read more than one entry per day, but with the storm still beating against the roof he felt he’d earned at least one more. He reached up behind his head to scritch at Snoopy’s chin and turned the page.

_Took a day off for myself and actually went down to the beach. Greased up with my specially designed sunblock, of course. I was able to observe that parents seem to get quite lax with their job when they’re on vacation. Kids were just running up and down the beach, in and out of the water, and seemingly with no parental supervision whatsoever. Don’t they know how easy it is to drown, even in the shallows? Criminal._

_That gay couple is still here. Maybe I was wrong, maybe they’re locals. They were necking right there in front of everyone. I wonder what it’s like, being so comfortable in a relationship that you don’t care what other people think. It got me thinking, though. Hank at the market suggested I try online dating, since it seems to be the general consensus around here that all I need to make me less annoying is some full-time companionship. Small towns are notoriously obnoxious about minding other people’s business, or so I’m learning._

_Thing is, I have no idea how these dating sites match people up. What formulas do they use? I spent the rest of the day constructing algorithms that, if the proper fields were filled in, would expertly match up people who stood the best chance at having a successful relationship. It could redefine dating the world over, so there’s no way I can sell it to anyone. I refuse to earn my Nobel on such tawdry grounds. Still, I wonder if it would’ve been able to help me find someone._

_Not that I’m not just fine on my own, because I am. There are countless perks to being single. I have ultimate control over the TV remote, I don’t have to apologize for liking mayonnaise on my French fries, I can leave my dirty boxers on the bathroom floor and not hear a load of shit about it, I can stay up all night working on a project without anyone getting pissy with me, and that’s just to name a few._

_If that couple isn’t local I hope they go home soon._

By the time the storm blew over John was asleep, slumped over on the bed and holding tightly to Rodney’s journal.

*o*o*o*

When John went for his appointment with the shrink the following week, he talked about Rodney. Dr. Marshall assured him that it was perfectly normal to feel a close connection to someone he’d never me and being open to that meant he was healing. Which then turned into John’s first honest accounting of the incident in Afghanistan, because if Rodney could be so open about his feelings there was no reason he couldn’t do the same. By the time they were finished he’d cried like a little girl and Dr. Marshall had told him that he was finally, finally making progress.

John headed back to Cannon Beach feeling husked out and a bit lighter around the edges than when he’d left. It didn’t hurt that he had a golf date with Ben, Maggie’s husband, the same day. They’d hit it off at the BBQ, to Maggie’s obvious pleasure, and John remembered what it was like to have a friend.

They drove up to the Seaside Golf Club in Ben’s Camry, chatting amiably about their hopes for the upcoming football season – Ben was a Seahawks fan, but John favored the Cowboys and went on at length about Staubach’s Hail Mary pass back in ’75 – and Maggie’s plans for a dinner party.

The eighteen-hole course was nice, though certainly not the most challenging John had ever played on, and he made a mental note to have his clubs shipped up; the rentals were okay but nothing like his own Callaway’s. He and Ben turned out to be fairly evenly matched, and they had fun smack-talking each other for the first few holes until Ben attempted a casual conversation change that just came off extremely awkward.

“So, you…uh…are you…seeing anyone?”

John frowned at him. “Are you asking me out?” He was gratified to see the flush that immediately rose in Ben’s cheeks. The other man scratched the back of his neck.

“No. Jeez. Just, you know. Wondering.”

“You mean Maggie’s wondering,” John sighed. That was the last thing he needed, his friends trying to fix him up with random women. Whatever progress he was making in therapy, he still wasn’t ready for _that_.

“She’s completely incapable of not meddling,” Ben admitted. “She thinks she’s this great matchmaker.”

It would’ve been the easiest thing for John to say that no, he wasn’t seeing anyone, but that he also wasn’t interested. Maggie, who had been witness to his PTSD, would probably let it go if he brought that up. She understood how difficult it could be for him without dragging some hapless woman into things. Why he didn’t say just that, he didn’t know.

“I’m with someone.”

“Oh?” Ben looked suddenly interested and John wondered if Maggie was the only one who got into matchmaking. “Someone local?”

“It’s kind of a long-distance thing. We don’t see each other much.” Inwardly he winced. What the hell was he _doing_? _We don’t see each other much?_ How about _never_? Because suddenly there was a face to go with his non-existent romance and now he was sure he’d painted himself into a corner because what would he say if Ben pressed for more information? He hadn’t known Ben and Maggie long enough to feel comfortable coming out to them, and he definitely couldn’t admit his imaginary boyfriend was Rodney McKay.

“That’s too bad,” was the sympathetic response. Ben seemed to get that John didn’t want to talk about it and got them on the topic of action movies instead. It was another three holes before John could get back into the banter they’d had earlier, and he spent the rest of the day worrying that he was getting obsessed with a man he’d never met and likely never would.

*o*o*o*

John sat behind the desk in the study, laptop open in front of him and his mostly-finished biplane set off to the side. He did another Google search for Rodney McKay, this time looking for his current address or at least a general idea of his location. Cannon Beach came up, as did an address in Ottawa that John disregarded because Rodney had seemed pretty certain about never going back there. A Boston address popped up, with an associated phone number, and he wrote that down to check later. Then went back and looked up the Canadian number as well, just in case.

He tried linking Rodney’s name with the military but didn’t get any pertinent hits there. Getting frustrated, he typed in _where’s rodney mckay_ and that provided a link to someone’s science blog. It seemed that Cannon Beach wasn’t alone in noticing the absence of Rodney. The writer of the blog wanted to know why the eminent and universally disliked though well-respected scientist had dropped off the face of the Earth, citing a complete cessation of journal articles, random awards, and speaking engagements.

“What happened to you, McKay?” John muttered to himself. He was half-tempted to skip ahead to the last journal entry, though it probably didn’t have much light to shed on the subject. What would he have written, after all? _Military types showed up again and dragged me off to a secret base to work on nefarious projects and never let me see the light of day_. Yeah, sure. Maybe he’d been beamed up by aliens or changed his name to Jorge Nervosa and was living a life of luxury on the Mexican coast.

Snoopy climbed up John’s pant leg and hopped up on the desk, lying right in front of the laptop. John huffed out a laugh and scratched the kitten’s belly.

“Well, at least I have you. Right, buddy?”

Snoopy purred and John tried not to worry about the fate of Rodney McKay, at least for a little while.

*o*o*o*

It was a warm, sunny day and John was enjoying it from the beach. He stretched out on a towel, hands behind his head, and contemplated the sky. There were a lot of things he wouldn’t miss about being in the Air Force – he’d always chafed at regimentation and it took every ounce of willpower not to buck authority. There were more than a few notes in his jacket condemning his attitude and noting his flirtation with insubordination. He’d always buckled down when it counted, though, when other people were relying on him. His team was everything and he’d always subscribed to the no-man-left-behind philosophy. Still did, even though it had meant career suicide for him in the end.

The one thing he did miss was flying. There was no feeling in the world like defying the laws of gravity and soaring up above the clouds at ridiculously high speeds. John had always felt that he could shed everything that held him down for as long as he was in the cockpit, soaring through the skies. Nothing could catch him up there, not his father’s disapproval or his mother’s absence or the commanding officer who wanted his head on a plate.

There was a little municipal airport up in Seaside and John toyed with the idea of buying a plane. Nothing big, not too fancy. Just enough to get him back in the blue. A Piper maybe, something that would hold passengers. He didn’t think there was any kind of airplane tour locally, though he was fairly certain there was a helicopter that did tourist runs out of Seaside. Of course, that all depended on him getting financing and actually staying in the area longer than a year. Still, it was nice to have something to think about, a plan for the no matter how tentative.

John rolled over on his stomach, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his skin, and flipped open the Star Trek encyclopedia. There were plenty of Rodney’s little notes in the margins, most of them speculating on the amount of venereal space diseases that Kirk may have acquired during his travels. He learned that Rodney preferred Chris Pine’s Kirk over Shatner’s, stating that the former was much more ‘rugged and manly’ than his predecessor; John was inclined to agree with that. Scattered amongst these little observations were some non-linear equations, random groupings of prime numbers, and a recipe for fudge.

“You a Trek fan?” a voice asked. 

John looked up to see a strange guy looming over him, wearing a tank top and bathing trunks that were entirely too short for his taste.

“Yeah.”

Taking that as an invitation, the guy sat down on the edge of John’s towel. John was annoyed at the intrusion. He closed the book and slid it to his chest to keep this guy from looking through it.

“Me too. I’m Jake.” He held out his hand and John shook it before boosting himself up in to a sitting position as well. He stowed the book safely at his back.

“John.”

“I’m vacationing with some of my old frat buddies. You live around here?”

“Yeah.” The guy was attractive, with his wind-tossed blonde hair and muscular arms, but he didn’t ping for John at all.

“Maybe you’d like to give me a… _personal_ …tour?”

And bold. Jake was really, really bold. John could read the interest on his face, in his posture, and it was all he could do to keep from bolting. Instead he fell back on what had become his new get-out-of-jail-free card.

“Maybe another time. I’m with someone.”

Jake looked around, clearly not convinced.

“He’s not here right now,” John clarified. “But we’re…uh… _exclusive._ ”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” Jake said amicably enough. “See you around.”

“Not if I can help it,” John muttered under his breath as the guy finally got up and left. He wondered if it was worth bringing up with Dr. Marshall. It was possible he was using Rodney as an excuse not to get out there and engage with other people. Of course, it was more likely that he just wasn’t ready yet and he didn’t think Rodney would mind much, if he ever found out about it. Which of course he never would.

“God, this sucks,” he whined to himself.

*o*o*o*

It happened on a Thursday, and even though he’d been expecting it John was still thrown for a loop. He felt bereft, like he’d just lost his closest friend. He’d reached the last entry in Rodney’s journal. There’d be no follow up, no where-is-he-now recap. Just the end.

_Looks like I’m making the trip to Colorado Springs after all. Why does that make me feel like a complete failure? Major Blondie came back this morning, alone this time, and laid things out for me in a very clear and concise fashion. I don’t dare talk about it here, because I had to sign about a thousand confidentiality agreements, but it’s the work of a lifetime and they quite honestly need someone with my genius on their project if they want to get it off the ground. The things I’ll be able to do! It’s unbelievable and amazing and terrifying._

_She said they’d take care of everything, with the house and all my things. Put them into storage. I’ll have to find someone to take Tribby, they won’t let me bring him. I thought I wouldn’t mind so much, leaving this stupid little town with its nosy inhabitants, but I do. I really do. I love my house, and my quiet, and the fact that despite myself I’ve made a few friends. I’ll have to start over now and I’m not sure I have it in me. Oh, I can do the work, that’s no problem. But making new friends hasn’t seemed this daunting since grade four._

_Not sure what to do with this journal. I don’t think I’ll bring it with me. Something tells me I won’t have as much alone time as I do now and I wouldn’t want anyone reading it._

_This had better be worth it._

Just that and nothing more. The military had gotten him after all. John pictured Rodney in some underground bunker, away from the sun and the fresh air and the soothing sound of the waves on the beach. Was he making scientific breakthroughs and changing the world? Or had they tricked him into designing fancy new weapons instead? Thinking about it made John sick.

He’d hoped for more for Rodney, and in his estimation the man had deserved a life with people who loved him for what he was, and a chance to make a lasting contribution to science with his big brain.

When he went to bed that night, John took an Ambien to help him sleep.

*o*o*o*

The day that John took his remote-controlled Beechcraft for her inaugural flight dawned cool but clear. He used his front walk as a runway and when the  
plane took off into the air he felt such a vicarious flare of joy that he laughed in a way he hadn’t in a very long time. He put her through the paces, engine buzzing up and down the beach, and he was so happy that when he finally brought her in for a landing he went in the house and invited Maggie and Ben and the kids over for dinner.

It was the first time he’d voluntarily had people at the cottage and he was full of nerves getting everything ready. He ran to the market to pick up some groceries, vacillating for a while between getting beer or wine. Wine was classier but he was more of a beer drinker, so he ended up with two six-packs of Widmer Brothers Hefeweizen, a pretty decent pale ale.

His cooking efforts had improved a bit but he decided to stick to what he was best at. Which meant a big pot of marinara, ziti, and chicken parmesan. He cheated on the garlic bread, picking up two loaves of the premade kind he only had to heat in the oven. Maggie had said she’d bring dessert so that was at least one thing he didn’t have to worry about.

While the sauce simmered John turned his attention to tidying up the cottage. There wasn’t all that much to do since he generally kept things pretty neat. He swept and Swiffered the hardwood floors and ran the vacuum over the carpet in the study. The box with Rodney’s special books and his journal were carefully stowed away in his bedroom closet.

Maggie and her entourage arrived ten minutes late, which she blamed on the kids. Meg and Tony were nine-year-old twins who alternated between periods of manic energy and a state of boneless lethargy that John only assumed was typical of that age. Maggie handed off a chocolate glaze cake and then went to inspect the sauce, nodding her approval when she took a quick taste.

“This is really good, John.”

“It’s about the only thing I can make,” he admitted. “I’ve been working on a roast. Don’t have it quite perfected yet.”

“You’ll get it,” Maggie assured him. “Just takes practice. I can give you some pointers.”

“I’d decline if I were you,” Ben said quietly over his shoulder. “Her roasts always come out dryer than sawdust.”

John hid a grin. “Anyone want a beer?”

“I do!” Tony called from the living room.

“Not a chance,” Maggie called back.

John got drinks for everyone – soda for the kids – and they filled the last few minutes before dinner with a quick tour of the cottage. Ben was taken with the study, and John regaled him with the story of how well his plane had performed that morning, with a promise for a repeat performance at the next possible opportunity.

“So many books,” Maggie said, running her finger along the spines.

“They’re Rodney’s,” John replied without thinking. “I’m pretty sure he read them all, too, though I don’t know how he found the time.”

“Who’s Rodney?” Ben asked.

John bit the inside of his cheek. Damn, he hadn’t meant to say that. He’d sounded casual, and he knew by the contemplative look Maggie was giving him that she’d picked up on the nuances. 

“I think the bread should be done, John,” she said. Grateful for the out, he took it, practically running out of the study.

After dinner, which was a culinary success, Maggie left Ben loading the dishwasher and the kids playing with the Wii while she took John outside for a walk before it was time for dessert. She linked her arm with his and he tried to swallow down the anxiety that was suddenly skittering over his skin.

“So. Rodney?”

John twitched. “What? They’re his books.”

“Tell me what’s going on or else I’m going to think up a mental illness for you and have you institutionalized.” The teasing tone of her voice helped relieve a bit of the tension he was feeling, but he was still worried about what she was going to say.

“I found his journal,” he admitted after a lengthy silence. “I don’t know. I read it and it was like…I got to know the guy. You know? With all his stuff in the cottage it feels like he’s a real person and not just words on a page. I know that sounds stupid.”

Maggie shook her head and gave his arm a squeeze. “It’s not stupid. When I was a kid some of my best friends were characters in books. I know what it’s like.”

Her reaction was a relief and John let his shoulders drop. “I looked him up online, but it’s like he dropped off the face of the earth.”

“Is he your long-distance relationship?”

John flushed. “I didn’t…I just don’t want to be fixed up right now.”

“Okay.” And just like that it was. They walked in silence for a while, until John got up the courage to ask about something else that had been on his mind.

“Rodney had a cat. Before he left he wrote he was going to give him to someone. Do you think it was someone local?”

Maggie looked thoughtful. “I’m sure it was. He left so suddenly, I don’t think he’d had time to get the cat to family or anything.”

John didn’t bother mentioning that Rodney hadn’t had any contact with his family; the details were his alone, coveted pieces of information that he didn’t feel the need to share. And he couldn’t quite vocalize his need to find the cat, another tangible piece of Rodney to hoard beneath the cottage roof.

“Tell you what. I’m pretty good friends with Trish Mabry. She works in the vet’s office. I can ask her about…what’s the cat’s name?”

“Tribby,” John supplied quickly. Maggie raised her eyebrow at the name.

“Right. If he’s in town, chances are she’ll know. There’ll be a record of visits.”

“Thanks, Maggie. I mean it.” John slung an arm across her shoulders. “I really appreciate you not wigging out about this.”

“Dr. McKay wasn’t very liked in town. But maybe that’s because people didn’t really know him. If you’ve read his journal you must recognize a kindred spirit and that’s not weird at all. Just…don’t get all psycho with it, okay?”

John chuckled. “I promise, no dressing up a mannequin, calling it Rodney, and sitting it at the dinner table.”

They headed back to the house then, for chocolate cake and a few hands of 500 Rummy, but John kept turning that phrase over and over in his head, liking the way it sounded. _Kindred spirts._

*o*o*o*

_The best thing about Tribby is that he rarely interrupts me, which is more than I can say of my professional colleagues. I felt compelled to attend a symposium on quantum field theory, which featured a presentation by one of my so-called peers. The same old thing, just presented in a different way, and I really wish these people would start being the slightest bit forward thinking for a change. Why must they rehash the same tired arguments instead of finding new ways to make things work? It staggers the mind. And the hors d’oeuvres weren’t very good._

_Wait till I present my paper on the practical applications of subspace. That’ll knock their collective socks off!_

_Another good thing about Tribby is that he’s excellent for bouncing theories off of. Just sits there and patiently listens while I work things out aloud, and then I don’t have to feel like a complete lunatic for talking to myself. I think this must be the reason people started keeping pets. And while I hate being allergic to something as stupid as citrus, I’m really glad I’m not allergic to cats._

_Besides, cats are just naturally intelligent. Dogs have the collective IQ of a paperweight. I’ve heard dog people say that cats are arrogant and stand-offish. Maybe that’s why Tribby and I get along so well. When he deigns to let me pet him, it helps me feel a little less alone._

John had to force himself to drive the posted speed limit and not race like a NASCAR driver all the way to the animal shelter. Maggie’s friend in the vet’s office had successfully found Tribby’s records, and John had gone to see Verna Wallace to try and work out getting the cat back from her. Only Verna had taken ill and been moved to a nursing home in Astoria, and her daughter had sent her four cats to the animal shelter. 

“Please be here. Please be here.” John kept the chant up under his breath as he pulled into the parking lot. He barely remembered to turn the truck off before he was running for the door. Tribby had been dropped off almost a month ago and while John was afraid he’d been adopted back out, he was absolutely terrified that Rodney’s cat had been euthanized.

“Can I help you?” the man at the front desk asked.

John nodded and tried to catch his breath. “I’m…I’m looking for a cat. His name is Tribby and he was mistakenly dropped off about a month ago by…uh…Leslie Wallace.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It was a mistake,” John reiterated. “Her mother was cat sitting, Tribby belongs to…he’s my roommate’s cat.”

“Wait here.” The man disappeared through an Employee’s Only door, leaving John alone in the tiny office that smelled of animal musk and disinfectant. Less than a minute later he was back, all smiles.

“Good news! We still have Tribby, and the information checks out. We’re going to have to charge you an adoption fee, though.”

John nearly sagged in relief. “No, that’s fine. Perfect!” He filled out the forms, turned over the fifteen-dollar adoption fee, then realized he didn’t have a pet carrier and paid an additional twenty-five dollars for that. Once the transactions were complete, the man gestured for John to follow him through the door marked Cat Room.

Cages lined both sides of the room, filled with all manner of cats and kittens. John’s heart went out to them with each and every sad little meow that floated his way, but he certainly wasn’t trying to become The Cat Man of Cannon Beach. Two was definitely his limit.

“Here we go.” The guy opened up a cage, the informational card on the door listing all of Tribby’s pertinent information. 

John wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but Tribby exceeded all his expectations. He seemed to be a mix of every color available in the feline fur rainbow, his long hair standing up in tufty clumps all over his lean body. A pair of baleful golden eyes stared at him from an almost-Persian face, the nose pushed in but not quite as flat. He had no discernable tail, and a jagged tear in one ear. Just like that, his name suddenly clicked into place and it was all John could do to contain his hysterical laughter.

Tribby did in fact bear a striking resemblance to a tribble.

“To be honest,” the animal shelter guy said as he manhandled the cat into the carrier. “This guy was on the short list. He looks a little…rough around the edges, and there hasn’t been any interest in adoption.”

Tribby was finally successfully loaded into the carrier, with only one rusty meow of protest, and John wrapped his hand tightly around the handle. If he’d waited much longer he would’ve been too late. He made a mental note to send Maggie some chocolates or flowers or something.

“He’s all up-to-date with his shots, and that information is in the packet I gave you.” The guy led him back out to the main office. “You should take him to the vet a year after the date of his last visit, which will be listed there as well.”

“Got it.”

“Good luck!”

John got the carrier stowed safely in the passenger seat and was extra careful driving back to the cottage, not wanting to take any chances with his cargo. He wasn’t sure how Snoopy and Tribby would react to each other, though he hoped it wouldn’t devolve into violence because Snoopy was still just a kitten and Tribby looked like he had a mean streak. He wanted it to work, for the sole reason that this was Rodney’s cat, his one true companion. 

“I’m taking you home, buddy. I’m sorry Rodney won’t be there, but I hope you’ll be happy anyway.”

If Tribby was happy to be back at the cottage, he played it close to the vest. John set the carrier in the front entry and opened the door. The cat took his sweet time coming out, to the point where John was ready to upend the whole carrier to help move him along, and spent several minutes sniffing along the baseboards.

A low growl alerted him to the arrival of Snoopy, whose back arched comically as he eyed the new guy. John held his breath, ready to step in if bloodshed seemed imminent. What happened was that Tribby reached out with one paw and pinned Snoopy to the floor, then proceeded to lick his head in a very thorough fashion.

“So…friends?” John asked hopefully.

*o*o*o*

John woke with a gasp, sweating and disoriented. It was dark. Where was the night light? The muscles in his thighs trembled and he realized he was standing, pressed into the corner of a room with his arms up defensively. He slid down to the floor and hugged his knees.

He was getting better, he’d told himself that so many times. The sessions with Dr. Marshall were helping, he needed much less Ativan, but this felt like a step back. He rested his head on his knees and took some deep breaths. His throat ached – had he been screaming? He hoped his neighbors hadn’t heard.

As his heart rate began to slow, John realized he was in the guest room behind the partially open door. He had no memory of getting out of bed, and it was like the first two weeks he’d been on Ambien – waking up in odd places around the apartment he’d been living in, one time even washing the dishes. But he hadn’t taken his sleeping pill. He’d been able to sleep on his own more frequently now, the nightmares finally tapering off.

John pushed himself to his feet and padded back down the hall to his room. He slipped into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face before curling up in his bed. It was twenty of four in the morning but he knew he’d never get back to sleep now. He felt like he was never going to be normal, the way he was before Afghanistan. 

Tribby jumped up on the bed and draped himself across John’s waist, purring like a rusty engine, all fits and stops. John ran a hand over his fur, a mix of coarse and velvety textures, and blinked the tears of frustration out of his eyes. He passed the time until sunrise petting the cat and running the Fibonacci sequence in his head. There was always comfort in the constancy of numbers.

_0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233, 377…_

*o*o*o*

Seven weeks after moving into the cottage John had a new routine. Monday mornings he’d drive up to Astoria for a session with Dr. Marshall. He’d gotten comfortable enough to start broaching some of his familial issues, and did a whole lot less crying now. Thursdays he’d have dinner at The Lumberyard, which made a mean burger and also the fish tacos he’d recently become enamored with. Roughly once a week he’d get together with Maggie and Ben, or sometimes just one of them, for dinner or golf or game night. Saturdays he went to the Pig’n Pancake for pecan pancakes and hash browns.

He was actively researching used planes for sale, and whether the current economic climate would support him starting a tourism-based business. People in town knew him by name, and he hadn’t had any more embarrassing flashbacks, though he wasn’t done with the random anxiety attacks and occasional bad nights where he’d wake up in another part of the house with no memory of having gotten there. Still, he thought he was at least eighty percent more put together than he had been when he first arrived.

“Back off, cat,” John said absently. He was sitting in the study, bare feet kicked up on the desk while he worked a Sudoku puzzle. Snoopy had a fascination with his toes and he had to keep jerking his feet to keep the stupid cat from gnawing on them.

Rain beat against the windows, as it had for the last two days. As much as John appreciated the sun, he didn’t mind rainy days. Those were sleep-in days, curled up in bed in a nest of blankets, warm and cozy. He hadn’t gotten up that morning until almost ten o’clock, feeling incredibly lazy, and decided to put off home repairs for one more day in favor of doing number puzzles and continuing his quest to finish reading War and Peace. Later he’d get the journal out and reread an entry. It was his way of keeping Rodney close.

“Damnit!” John dropped his feet off the desk, cursing and sending Snoopy running for the hills. It felt like the cat had sunk an entire pointy tooth right through his pinky toe. Sure enough, there was a little dot of blood on the side. He tossed the Sudoku book aside and went into the downstairs bathroom to rinse the abused toe and dab it with a little peroxide – no telling what kind of germs lived in a cat’s mouth.

Since he was up, he decided to fix a cup of hot cocoa, his preferred beverage on a dismal, rainy day. He flipped the light on over the stove and turned the burner on under the teapot. While he waited for the water to boil he opened the cabinet with the mugs and tried to decide which one he wanted to use. There were at least ten different mugs of various color, size and style. Today he chose a dark blue oversized mug with a Star Trek logo on the side, and contemplated throwing on an episode or two of _Deep Space Nine_ to watch while he relaxed. He dumped two packets of cocoa in the mug and wandered over to the windows to look outside.

The rain was coming down in steady sheets and it was hard to even see the beach. Fog on the inside of the window didn’t help either. The teapot started to whistle, but as John was turning back towards the stove something caught his eye. He rubbed at the window with one sleeve and peered out at the porch. Someone was sitting out there on the steps, completely drenched and seemingly not caring. Anxiety pricked along his skin and he wondered who it was. He wasn’t in the habit of having uninvited guests.

The insistent wailing of the teapot grabbed his attention and he hurriedly moved it to one of the other burners with one hand while twisting the knob to the off position with the other. He cast around for some kind of weapon, then remembered the baseball bat in the downstairs closet. He hated taking his eyes off the stranger on the porch, but he couldn’t stand there staring at him all day either. He dashed into the front entry and yanked open the closet door, fumbling for a minute until his hand closed around the smooth wood handle.

John reminded himself that he was trained for combat and that it was foolish of him to be this nervous. It was probably just some person who got turned around in the storm and was waiting it out. Which didn’t explain why they hadn’t knocked on the door and asked for help. Grip tightening on the bat, John opened the front door.

“What are you doing out here?” he called out, needing to raise his voice to be heard over the drumming rain. The hunched shoulders of the person – they were so broad he was sure it was a man – twitched.

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

John lowered the bat. It was definitely a man, and his voice was completely flat and devoid of emotion. 

“You need some help buddy?”

The man got to his feet and turned around. He wore a blue windbreaker, which was plastered to his chest, and black jeans that had soaked through. He ran a hand over his short brown hair, pushing some of the water out. His eyes were blue. _I should’ve guessed they would be_ , John thought distractedly. He couldn’t stop staring, taking in the thinner face and the sorrow etched there in deep lines.

_Please don’t let this be a hallucination._ “Rodney?”

*o*o*o*

“I don’t know why I even had them send me here. I guess I didn’t remember…well, it’s not like my name still isn’t on the deed, right? Not that I want to make things difficult for you…” Rodney’s mouth had a crooked tilt to it that enhanced his unhappy expression and made John’s chest tighten.

“Get in here, you’ll catch pneumonia.” He saw now that there was a duffle bag and a laptop case to the side of the door, both still mostly dry. He’d taken care with his things, but not with himself. John grabbed both bags and Rodney’s elbow, pulling them all into the front entryway and kicking the door shut.

He was at a complete loss once he’d gotten Rodney inside. They stood there staring at each other, Rodney dripping all over the floor, and then he sneezed and that propelled John into action.

“Sorry! Let me just…I’ll get you a towel.” John was pretty sure he broke the land speed record to the linen closet and back, a towel in each hand. He thrust both of them at Rodney, relieved that the man hadn’t vanished in the seconds he was gone.

“Thanks.” Rodney did his best to dry off the worst of the water. He toed off his shoes, revealing wet socks, and reached for his duffel. “I’ll just change into something less saturated.”

John stopped himself from giving directions to the bathroom – it’s not like he’d have forgotten the layout of his own house – and tried to think of something else useful to do.

“I just boiled some water. Can I get you tea or hot cocoa or something?”

Rodney sighed. “I don’t suppose you have coffee? Nothing freeze dried or that comes in a can, preferably. It doesn’t taste right after sitting in aluminum.”

John couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. Dr. Rodney McKay, double PhD, was standing in front of him and complaining about coffee. It was surreal.

“I picked up some freshly ground coffee from Bella Espresso a couple days ago. Will that do?”

Rodney looked surprised. “Really? Yeah, that’ll work. Their stuff is okay. Better than that mass-produced crap.” 

“Okay. Well, I’ll get that started while you…” John waved his hand in the general direction of the bathroom and then made himself walk away first. 

Once he got to the kitchen he had to brace himself against the counter, arms straining, just to keep the shakes out of his hands. He was pretty sure it wasn’t a hallucination, mostly because when he was in a flashback he never recognized it as such and hallucinations probably weren’t all that much different. He had a sudden, desperate need to pick up the phone and call Maggie, but what did he expect her to do? Come riding to his rescue? Prove or disprove Rodney’s existence in his bathroom like he was Schrödinger's cat?

John took several deep breaths until he felt steady enough to make the coffee. He went through the motions automatically while his mind raced. There was one consideration that was especially important, and that was the cottage. Rodney’s name was probably still on the deed which meant he could probably kick John to the curb any time he wanted. Although the lease was paid through till June, so there might be a way to delay the inevitable.

He honestly didn’t want to leave. He loved the cottage, loved being so close to the ocean. He was trying to make a life there and, sure, he didn’t need to live in that _exact_ house to do it but in the last two months it had become his home. Well, his and Rodney’s. Maybe he could suggest a roommate arrangement?

“Stupid,” he muttered to himself, and rested his forehead against one of the cabinets. It wasn’t like Rodney knew him, not the way he felt he knew Rodney. Something brushed against his leg and he jerked in surprise, but it was just Tribby. John bent down and picked him up, scratching him under the chin the way he liked the best.

“What do you think, buddy? Time for me to look at rental ads?” The cat butted his head against John’s chin. “Thanks for the moral support.”

“You talk to your cat too?” Rodney came through the door, dressed now in gray sweats and a long-sleeved maroon pullover. “I’m glad it’s…it’s not… _Tribby_?”

The cat was yanked out of John’s arms with an unhappy yowl. Rodney clutched him close, burying his face in Tribby’s fur. John’s throat tightened at the sight and he wanted nothing more than to throw his arms around both of them and just hold on. He had to remind himself that Tribby, like the house, didn’t belong to him.

“Is this real?” Rodney’s voice was muffled but John could hear the break in it just the same. “How is Tribby here?”

“Miz Wallace couldn’t take care of him anymore.” He didn’t think it was prudent to mention how close to death his cat had been. 

“How can this be real?” Rodney looked up, his blue eyes swimming with tears and uncertainty. “How can this be _real_? My _house_ is still here, still exactly the same. My _cat_ is here. And I’ve got some _hot guy_ in my kitchen making me coffee. Is this another goddamn hallucination?”

His voice got higher and faster as he went, and he must’ve squeezed Tribby too hard because the cat growled and squirmed out of Rodney’s grasp. John just gaped at him. Hallucination? _Hot guy_?

“Rodney…”

“See? That’s another thing. How do you know my name? I don’t know you. But here you are in my house, with my cat, with the towels from my damn linen closet.”

“I’m just the guy renting the house,” John said, trying to keep his tone low and soothing. “Name’s John, by the way.”

Rodney laughed, but it was tinged with hysteria and he wiped absently at his mouth. “John? Really? That’s the best you can do? I suppose your last name is Smith.”

“Sheppard, actually. And I’m not a figment of your imagination or anyone else’s.” John poked him in the shoulder. “See?”

“They could touch me the last time, too.” Rodney’s voice had gone soft and sad, his lips trembling. 

John closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. This was ridiculous. He wondered if this was what he was like in the middle of one of his flashbacks and made a mental note to buy Maggie some jewelry or possibly a new car.

“They gave me everything I wanted,” Rodney continued in that small voice. And then the most amazing change came over him. He straightened up, got a sharp gleam in his eye, and snapped his fingers repeatedly. “That’s it! Proof! Last time I got what I wanted. Okay, think. Something simple. Chocolate cream pie! I want some chocolate cream pie!”

“Uh…okay. I don’t have any pie.”

“Chocolate pudding?”

“Nope.”

“Chocolate ice cream?” Rodney asked, sounding a bit desperate again. “A candy bar? Something?”

“Sorry,” John said with a shrug. There was a brief pause, which involved a lot of mutual staring.

“Not a hallucination?”

“Yours or mine,” he replied with certainty.

“So you just live here. And took back my cat out of the goodness of your heart.”

“Pretty much.”

“I have the worst case of jet lag known to man. Sorry for the…thing. Is that coffee ready yet?” And just like that Rodney shook off whatever crazy fear he’d had and waited expectantly for John to pour him a cup of coffee.

*o*o*o*

“So how long have you lived here?”

Rodney didn’t say _in my house_ but John heard it just the same. They were sitting at the kitchen table with their respective hot beverages and, in a move that left him feeling vaguely embarrassed, John had put out a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies.

“A couple of months.”

“Hmmm. I thought they’d have put my stuff in storage. What if this place got rented to a bunch of hippie artists or something?” Rodney took a bite out of his third cookie. “You’re not one, are you?”

“What? A hippie?” John his grin behind his mug of cocoa. 

“Well, I can plainly see you’re not a hippie. I’m not sure how I’d classify you. Surfer maybe? Playboy?”

“Playboy?”

Rodney flapped a hand at him. “So what do you do, then?”

There were a lot of ways that John could answer that, and he took a second or two to run through the possibilities. “I’m a pilot.”

That garnered him a look of interest. “Commercial?”

“Actually, I’m going to be starting a charter business.”

“Out of Seaside?” Rodney reached for another cookie. “Yes, I suppose that’s the closest air strip. Are you talking about running people to Portland or doing local tours or what?”

“Local tours mostly.”

“Season’s only what, like three or four months? What about the rest of the time?”

John shrugged. “I’m still working on a business plan.”

Rodney snorted derisively and Snoopy chose that moment to scale John’s pants leg and from his lap venture northward until he was crouched on one shoulder. “Oh, I see it now. You’re a pirate in the off season and that’s your faithful parrot.”

“Snoopy, this is Rodney. Feel free to bite him. Repeatedly.”

“That’s a dog’s name.”

“Says the man who named his cat after a tribble.” John smirked, certain he held the higher ground. Rodney nodded, looking thoughtful.

“NexGen?”

“DS9.”

“Kirk or Picard?”

“Trek reboot Kirk or original series Kirk?”

“Either.”

“Reboot Kirk.”

Rodney grinned, and grabbed the last cookie. “Well, John Sheppard, you might not be a total loss despite your lackadaisical approach toward planning your future. But we can work on that.”

“We can?”

“You’re paid up through June, right? Well, so we have till then to figure your life out. I’m a genius. It won’t take me that long.” Rodney stood up, leaving his dirty dishes on the table. “If you don’t mind I’m gonna go lay down for a while. It’s been a long day and…with the stuff…”

John just nodded, confused by the way the whole conversation had gone. He watched Rodney leave, listened as he made his way up to the spare room. He looked at the empty cookie plate and the crumbs on the table and wondered what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

*o*o*o*

Rodney didn’t come back downstairs until John had dinner almost ready. He’d tried out a chicken and dumpling recipe, which so far seemed to be turning out okay. The snoring from upstairs had made a surprisingly pleasant backdrop to the rainy evening and helped reinforce the fact that the events of earlier had in fact happened and John wasn’t having a psychotic break.

“Smells good,” Rodney said, heading for the fridge. His short hair was sticking up on one side and there was a crease in his cheek from the pillow. He grabbed a beer.

“Sleep okay?” John asked politely. He’d decided to be on his best behavior. No sense pissing off the landlord.

“As well as can be expected, I suppose. I’ll need to order a new mattress for that bed, it’s going to kill my back. That was fine when it was for guests, but it’s not good enough for me. Also, I think there’s some kind of animal in the attic.”

“You don’t have to sleep in there. I can move out of the master bedroom and…”

Rodney waved that offer away. “I think we can manage this with the least amount of upheaval for you, don’t you think? Once I have a new mattress that bed will be more than sufficient. Are those dumplings?”

_Least amount of upheaval_? Just having him in the house was changing everything. For two months he’d been nothing but words on paper and a kind of fuzzy, friendly idea in John’s head, and now he was taking over, making decisions, and what could John possibly say about any of it when it was Rodney’s house?

“Hey, you okay?” Rodney waved a hand in front of his face. “You in there?”

John flinched back, scowling. “Do you mind?”

He was met with an appraising look. “Is all this freaking you out?”

“Hell, yes, it’s freaking me out!” John replied without thinking. “You’re just…here…and it’s…”

He was saved from making a bigger fool of himself when his cell phone started buzzing on the counter. He snatched it up, relieved, and walked over to stand by the kitchen table while Rodney poked at the chicken.

“Sheppard.”

_John? It’s Maggie. Just calling to check up on you._

He was relieved to hear her voice. A little piece of normal in a crazy day. “Hey. You floated away yet?”

_Getting the ark ready as we speak_ , she joked. _You okay? I know weather like this can bring my brother down._

“I’m good. Well, mostly. Maggie…he’s here.”

_Who’s here?_

“Rodney. Rodney’s here. He’s back.” He kept his voice low, hoping the man banging around in the kitchen wouldn’t notice he was being talked about. There was a lengthy silence on the other end of the phone.

_John? Do you want me to come over?_

He could tell she didn’t believe him, and for a moment he was full of doubt again himself. But then Rodney was standing next to him, real and solid.

“You want me to make a salad?”

_Who is that?_

“It’s Rodney. And sure, if you want to.”

_Rodney. He just showed up out of the blue and now, what? He’s staying with you?_

John could feel a headache building behind his eyes. Why didn’t Maggie believe him? This was different. This was…this was…

_“This is unacceptable, Major! Return to base immediately!”_

_“I’m not leaving Captain Holland behind, Sir,” John snapped. He looked for a clear spot to land the Apache. He knew his ass would be in a sling when he got back but there was no way he was leaving a member of his team behind. Not when he’d promised they’d all get back home, one way or another._

_When Colonel Haskins continued to yell at him John turned off the radio. He was no stranger to insubordination and knew this would be just another addition to his jacket, but it wouldn’t matter once he got Holland out of the mess he’d gotten himself into. His teammate believed in him and he wasn’t going to let him down._

_“I can do this,” he said to himself. Except that suddenly he wasn’t so sure. He blinked his eyes rapidly against the unexpected rippling of the sand in front of him. The whole landscape started to shimmer and change, and he was afraid that he’d crash himself and then who would come for him?_

“…like, okay? Can you hear me, John?”

John closed his eyes on a wave of dizziness and sagged back in the chair; he didn’t remember sitting. His hands were clenched around phantom flight controls and his fingers ached as he relaxed them. Rodney had one hand on his shoulder, squeezing almost too hard, but John was grateful for the anchor.

“John? Are you with me?”

The best he could manage at the moment was a _yeah_ that was more of a sigh than anything else. Rodney kept talking and it took John a minute to realize that he must be on the phone.

“He’s okay. Wow. That sucked. What do I…yeah. Okay. Hold on, I’ll ask him.” Rodney patted John on the shoulder, releasing his vice grip. “You want Maggie to come over?”

John shook his head. Maggie would just fuss, and it was enough that he’d embarrassed himself in front of Rodney, he didn’t need a crowd.

“No, he’s fine for right now. Yeah. Yeah. Tomorrow? Yeah, that’ll be fine. Okay, thanks. You too.” Rodney tossed the phone on the table and pulled a chair out to sit next to John. “Is there something you need? Water? Liquor? Pills?” 

John ran a hand over his face and opened his eyes, looking warily at Rodney. “I’m fine.”

“Well, that’s clearly not the case.” But his tone wasn’t mocking or scornful, just quiet. 

They sat in silence for a little while, John clenching and unclenching his hands in his lap. He kept telling himself he was fine, it was only the second flashback in two months and that was an improvement. _I’m fine. I’m fine._

“Do you…you know. Take anything?” Rodney asked.

“No. I don’t…no.” He was trying to get off the pills. Originally, he’d been on Fluoxetine, Clonidine, and Nefazodone. It was a big deal that he’d backed that all off to Ativan and Ambien. It meant control, and he wasn’t giving that up.

John belatedly remembered that he had food on the stove and got up to check on it. The chicken mixture had stuck a little to the bottom of the pot, but the dumplings looked fine. His stomach rolled and he fought another wave of dizziness. He shot Rodney an apologetic look.

“I’m sorry. I can’t…I…” He bolted and just made it to the bathroom before he heaved up everything he’d eaten that day. He didn’t think he’d ever felt more miserable.

*o*o*o*

Half an hour later John lay in bed, his stomach empty. He was completely mortified by his behavior in the kitchen. A damned flashback, right in front of Rodney. No doubt he’d changed his mind, probably preferring a hippy artist over a crazy ex-airman. It felt like everything was coming to an end and he was helpless to stop any of it.

There was a tentative knock at his door and then Rodney poked his head in the bedroom. “Hey. Uh…can I come in?” He sounded uncertain.

_It’s your house_ , John thought wearily. “Sure.”

The last of the light was fading from the already overcast sky, keeping Rodney’s face mostly unreadable as shadows moved across his skin. He sat on the end of the bed, turned only slightly in John’s direction, and worried at the hem of his shirt.

“I put the chicken away. It was…I liked it.”

“Thanks.” John waited for him to say something else, but silence spun out between them until he found himself getting drowsy. It had been an unbelievably long day, emotionally draining, and he thought he should probably take an Ambien to save himself from further humiliation. He made to turn towards the nightstand when Rodney started talking again.

“Look, I’m…uh…I’m not really good at this. The talking thing.” His expressive hands moved through the air as he gestured, reminding John of the photo from CalTech. “I just…I know what it’s like. Losing people. People you…who counted on you. It’s the worst, most suckiest thing in the history of ever, so I don’t want you to feel like you have to be ashamed…well, not that you’re ashamed, I wouldn’t presume to tell you how you’re feeling…but it’s okay. Okay?”

An automatic denial was on John’s lips – _you have no idea what it’s like!_ – but he could hear it in Rodney’s voice. He knew first-hand somehow. Whatever had happened to him in the last two years, wherever he’d been, he knew. John lay back against his pillows and let out a breath.

“Okay.”

“Really? I mean, good. That’s good.”

There was more silence, but it was comfortable somehow. John grabbed the bottle of Ambien and shook one out into his hand. There was always water on the nightstand, and he used it to wash the pill down.

“What is that?” Rodney asked, sounding suspicious.

“Sleeping pill. Sometimes I…wander.” John blushed. He figured he ought to give the guy some kind of warning, just in case.

“Should I lock my door? Do you have a gun in the house? Because that would be really irresponsible. And to be honest, anyone who comes up with a half-assed plan for flying planes four months out of the year has to be irresponsible.”

Instead of being annoyed John just grinned. “No, I don’t have a gun. I wield a mean baseball bat though.”

“Oh, right. Well, I’ll lock it just in case.” Rodney reached out and patted him clumsily on the calf. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

“It’s your house, Rodney.”

“Yeah, but you could’ve been a big jerk about it. I would’ve.”

“I’m nicer,” John pointed out with a yawn.

“That’s not exactly challenging.” Rodney sounded amused instead of offended. “I guess I’ll let you…you know. Uh, see you in the morning?”

“Sure.” John watched him make his way back to the door, which he closed quietly behind him. That awkward conversation shouldn’t have made him feel any better, but it did. Suddenly things didn’t seem so dire, and he fell asleep with a grin on his face.

*o*o*o*

John woke the following morning to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and bacon. He experienced a moment of disorientation before he remembered that Rodney had come back yesterday, and he surely the one in the kitchen. His hand reached reflexively for the journal, which was tucked into his nightstand drawer, but he left it alone. He had the real thing now, which was so much better than words on paper.

He forced himself out of bed with a groan. The sun was back and streaming through the window, and he narrowed his eyes against it. He took a nice hot shower and by the time he was dressed and on his way downstairs he felt a lot more human. He was almost to the kitchen when he realized Rodney wasn’t the only one puttering around the house that morning.

“…love to listen,” Maggie said. She was scrambling eggs and talking to Rodney over her shoulder. He was sitting at the table, nursing a cup of coffee and looking bleary-eyed.

“I’d always planned on getting one but I just never had the time.”

“Getting one what?” John asked, heading straight for the coffee pot. Maggie was on him in a second, wrapping him in a bear hug and apologizing in his ear.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, John. I should’ve believed you.”

He hugged her back, relieved that she was here. “Flashbacks, not hallucinations. Remember?”

“The eggs’ll dry out,” Rodney said. 

Maggie pressed a wet kiss to John’s temple and turned back to the stove. He poured himself coffee and sat down at the table next to Rodney.

“Getting one what?”

“Piano.”

Oh. He remembered something in the journal – yes, Rodney had gone to Portland to look at pianos but hadn’t found one he liked. By his own admission he didn’t think he had the right amount of passion when he played, but John was sure that wasn’t the case at all. He’d give anything to hear Rodney play.

“Where would you put it?” He did a mental walk-through of the cottage, shifting furniture around. An upright piano would maybe fit, but nothing fancy like a baby grand. 

“Living room is the logical place.” Rodney took a long swallow of coffee. “I used to think about turning the upstairs guest room into a music room. It’s not like I got a lot of overnight company, you know?”

John could imagine it all too well. Putting together a new plane kit in the study while Rodney’s music drifted down the stairs. It was achingly ordinary and domestic and he flushed when he realized there’d only be one bedroom in that scenario.

Rodney gave him an odd look, but whatever he might’ve been about to say was lost when Maggie set down a plate of bacon, eggs and toast in front of him. “I think I love you.”

Maggie just giggled and handed John a plate as well. “You should wait till you try my chocolate cake. Then you can love me.”

“You will, too,” John promised.

“Anyone want orange juice?”

John didn’t even think about it, just opened his mouth the same time that Rodney opened his, their words overlapping.

“He’s allergic.”

“I’m allergic.”

There was no escaping that laser-focus now. John turned all his attention to his breakfast, ignoring Rodney’s gaze as Maggie joined them at the table. Scrambled eggs became his whole life, and he thought he should really enjoy them because Rodney was going to ask him soon, ask him about how John knew his name before they even met and how John knew he had a citrus allergy when he’d never mentioned it out loud. He’d have to tell about the journal, which now seemed like an incredible breach of privacy. It would also likely make him seem crazy and he thought he’d already demonstrated that well enough the night before. 

Maggie naturally picked up on the undertones and gave John an intense look with a lot of eyebrow movement that he was pretty sure meant something like _come clean_. He gave a minute shake of his head in response and stared her down. Before the silence became too fraught with things unsaid Maggie favored Rodney with a bright smile.

“We’re so glad to have you back in town, Dr. McKay. I hope you weren’t called away on a family emergency.”

Rodney paused with his fork full of eggs halfway to his mouth, and the look he gave her very clearly said that he wasn’t at all fooled by the transparency of that question. “I was offered a job.”

“Oh?” Maggie waited with an interested look.

“It’s classified,” he said, and filled his mouth with eggs. John, who had been watching as surreptitiously as he knew how, saw the shuttered look on Rodney’s face and the hard glint in his eye. Not that Rodney had been a naïve innocent or anything like that before, but now he bore battle scars and just because they weren’t on the outside didn’t mean John couldn’t recognize them. Kindred spirits, even more so now.

“So, John.” Maggie switched her focus, much to his dismay. “Do you need a place to stay while you look for a new rental? Ben and I would be happy to put you up.”

_Should’ve seen that coming_. John looked at Rodney, trying to take a cue from his closed-off expression. He’d made it seem like John was welcome to finish out his lease but that had been yesterday and everything could’ve changed since then.

“John?” Maggie raised her eyebrows expectantly.

“Yeah, uh…I…”

“We’ve worked out an arrangement,” Rodney said abruptly. He didn’t break eye contact with John. “Sheppard can finish out his lease. In the meantime, I’ve moved into the guest room. We’ll be sharing all the household expenses from here on out.”

“You don’t have to…”

“Since we both seem to be between jobs right now we can help each other set some employment goals. Brush up on…uh…resumes or something.”

“Or something,” John echoed weakly. He supposed he should be glad Rodney had a plan. And that he’d been included in it.

Maggie had that narrow-eyed look that John knew meant an interrogation in his future. He resisted the urge to bang his head on the table. So much for the simple life he’d been cultivating. He turned his attention back to his breakfast; he was going to need to keep his strength up.

*o*o*o*

John came down the stairs clutching Rodney’s journal to his chest like a security blanket. Maggie had left over an hour ago and his new roommate had quietly helped him clean up before demanding an explanation. John tried not to feel defensive. It was a private journal, but it had belonged to a man two years gone with no expectation of him ever coming back. Surely that had to count for something.

Rodney was in the living room, sitting in one of the two overstuffed arm chairs with his slippered feet propped up on the ottoman. He didn’t comment when John came into the room, though his whole posture telegraphed the eureka moment he had when he saw the journal. John handed it to him and sat down in the other chair.

“It was in a box in the closet. I didn’t think…I shouldn’t have read it. I’m sorry.” He looked down at his hands, listening as Rodney turned the pages. He knew the words there well enough. The funny asides, the random notes, the unwritten longing for human contact that shone through so clearly – he’d put all of himself into every entry.

“You read the whole thing?” Rodney asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Anyone else?”

“Not since I’ve been here.” John hazarded a look and could immediately tell that things were bad. There were two spots of color high on Rodney’s cheekbones and his jaw was clenched so tightly that John’s ached in sympathy. There were several moments of silence before Rodney exploded, pushing up out of the chair to pace around the living room.

“Do you have any idea what a violation of privacy this is? Did you even bother to read the first page or did you just skim it for the interesting parts?”

John felt like he was back in grade school and had been called – again – to the principal’s office. He responded as he always did, with stiff posture and a scowl. It didn’t matter that he was in the wrong, that he’d read something so personal without permission.

Rodney continued to pace and wave his arms around. “I mean, I don’t…why the fuck is this even _here_? It should’ve been in storage. Which by no means excuses you from reading it. You had _no right_! You…I…give me your keys.”

“What?”

“Car keys. Now.” Rodney snapped his fingers three times in succession. “I can’t be here and I don’t have a car so give me you’re damned _keys_!”

His face was turning an interesting shade of purple and John was afraid to push him any further. “Hanging by the back door.”

Rodney snatched up the journal, pointed one quivering finger in John’s direction, and then stomped into the kitchen. Moments later the front door slammed shut and John managed to keep it together long enough to watch his Explorer back out of the garage and drive away. He took the stairs two at a time and fumbled the cap off the Ativan bottle, dry swallowing a pill. He sat on the edge of the bed until his hands stopped shaking and counted it as a win that he’d managed to stay in the here and now.

He wondered when Rodney would be back.

*o*o*o*

“John?”

He startled awake, jerking back in his chair so hard he would’ve toppled over if not for Rodney’s steadying grip on his arm. The study was dark save for the night light. John had fallen asleep in the middle of doing a Sudoku puzzle, but that had been when late afternoon sun was still slanting through the window.

“You okay?” Rodney asked.

“What time is it?”

“Uh…a little after eight.”

John rubbed a hand over his face and stifled a yawn. He couldn’t believe he’d slept so long.

“Did you eat?” Rodney asked, moving back towards the door. “No, I’m sure you didn’t. I brought dinner home with me, come on.”

With a resigned sigh John got up and shuffled after his housemate. He made a quick detour for the bathroom to empty his over-full bladder, and then found himself reluctant to leave. Surely Rodney had re-thought their arrangement in light of the journal. Probably dinner was just a sorry-I’m-kicking-you-out gesture.

John flinched when Rodney pounded on the door. “Stop hiding in there like a little girl and come eat.”

_I can do this_ , he thought to himself. _I flew an Apache through a sandstorm; I can face one angry astrophysicist._

Rodney was at the kitchen table with a big box of tacos and burritos from Taco Bell, and two large sodas. John grabbed a handful of napkins and slid into a chair. He waited his turn before pulling a couple tacos from the box. They were cold and a little soggy.

“I filled your gas tank,” Rodney said around a mouthful of burrito.

“Thanks. Where’d you go?”

“Tacoma.”

John ducked his head. Rodney went all the way up to _Tacoma_ to get away from him? Jesus. It was just as bad as he’d thought. He forced himself to eat what was probably his last meal in the cottage and wished it was something better than cold tacos.

“So what branch of military were you?” Rodney took a quick suck on his straw and then answered his own question. “No, wait. Pilot. Air Force, right?”

John just nodded.

“Only child?”

“What?”

Rodney leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Look, I could’ve found all of this out online if I’d brought my laptop with me instead of using a public terminal. But I’m giving you the chance to tell me, even the playing field as it were. You know all about me, but I don’t know anything about you except that you know how to fly a plane, you like Star Trek, and you’re an emotional wreck.”

“Hey!” It was a weak protest. Nothing Rodney had said was untrue, and he’d also given John a glimmer of hope. A level playing field insinuated they’d still be able to share the cottage, and he wanted that more than anything.

“So are you or are you not an only child? Because you’ve been living here for two months but I haven’t seen a single photograph to indicate that you have a family, or even any friends.”

“I have a brother. He’s a dick.”

“Younger or older?”

“Younger.” John shifted in the chair. It was a little uncomfortable being Rodney’s sole focus. He felt the other man was judging every single facial twitch and body movement, and he didn’t particularly like being exposed that way. He kept reminding himself that he owed Rodney.

“Parents?”

“My mother died when I was a kid. Haven’t talked to my father in…it’s been a long time.”

“Hmm. What happened to you in Afghanistan?”

“Classified,” John replied tersely, hands clenching into fists. Discussing that with Dr. Marshall was one thing, but he couldn’t with Rodney. Or Maggie. Couldn’t throw his failure out there for everyone to see.

“Fair enough,” Rodney said equably. He unwrapped a taco. “Why do you like flying? I can only assume that you do, in fact, like it. I mean, the plane in the study – hey, does that thing actually fly?”

“Yeah. Yeah, she flies like a dream. There’s this F-16 kit I want to get that looks pretty sweet.” 

Rodney raised an eyebrow. “Planning on buzzing the sunbathers?”

“Maybe.” John couldn’t help chuckling, picturing that in his head.

“What do you like best about flying?” Rodney asked softly.

John answered without thinking. “Nothing can touch me up there. I can leave everything behind, even if it’s just for a little while.”

“Hmmm.”

He blinked and looked down at the remains of the taco on his plate. He couldn’t believe he’d just said that. He sounded ridiculous. It was one thing to answer generic questions about things that didn’t matter, but he’d revealed too much of himself with that last one. He scowled. He loved the cottage, but he wasn’t about to pimp himself out for it.

“You know what, I’m gonna…”

“Will you fly it for me?” Rodney interrupted. “The model plane, I mean. You know, I bet I could help you tweak it. More speed, better aerodynamics. Actually, I wouldn’t mind getting one of those kits for myself, be involved in the process from the ground up. Where’d you get it from?”

John wondered if he could get whiplash from the speed with which Rodney could turn a conversation. “Uh…I ordered it online.”

“Sure. Yeah. I could improve the drag coefficient…hmmm…mass density…” He began mumbling to himself and using his finger to draw equations on the table.

“I’ll just put the rest of this in the fridge.”

“Huh.” Rodney flapped a hand at him. Clearly the joint portion of the conversation was over.

John closed the box and stuffed it into the refrigerator. He paused on his way out of the room, watching Rodney hunched over the table working equations in his head. He was annoying and frustrating and bossy. John was glad he’d come back.

*o*o*o*

They spent the next two days tracking down Rodney’s things, including his black Prius and an inordinate amount of computer equipment. Now John knew why he’d needed such a large desk. There were boxes full of academic journals, Rodney’s journals documenting his work, an extensive sci-fi DVD collection, and pictures of Rodney with various scientific and political dignitaries as he accepted awards and academic appointments.

Rodney’s new mattress was delivered, and he dragged John to Portland for the day to pick out all new bedding for both beds, a new cell phone, and a digital camera. Each transaction seemed to take forever as Rodney haggled over the price and spent time assessing thread counts and megapixels and the benefits of 4G.

John tried to be patient, though shopping wasn’t his favorite thing. He didn’t care about bedding, except to lament the fact that grownups couldn’t get fun Superman sheets like kids could.

“I could get them if you want,” Rodney said in an offhand manner. “I’m sure there’s an online store that carries that kind of thing.”

“I wasn’t serious.”

“Whatever. You’ll have to make do with the brown stripes, unless you think the lack of cartoon characters will negatively impact your sex life.”

“Brown stripes is fine,” John replied hastily. The last thing he wanted to talk about with Rodney was his sex life. Or lack thereof.

It wasn’t any better shopping for a new phone. Rodney had to look at everything, making judgments on operating systems, network availability, and which one offered the best bells and whistles. When he finally settled on a Samsung he started haggling on a price, demanding a deal because he was buying two.

“Why do you need two phones?” John asked, checking out some apps on an iPhone.

“I don’t. I’m replacing that piece of crap you have.”

“What? No.”

Rodney just ignored him. “What kind of case can I get for them? I need something sturdy. Does that come in black?”

“Rodney…”

“Look, Sheppard. Your phone is little better than a paperweight. Give it to the nice lady behind the counter and she’ll transfer all your contact information to the new one.”

“No.” John was beholden enough to Rodney, he didn’t need to add to it. And yeah, a snappy new phone would probably be cool but it wasn’t like he used the one he already had all that much; Maggie was the only one he called.

“Don’t be petulant, it’s not a good look for you. Come on, hand it over. And then we can get something to eat before my blood sugar gets too low.” Rodney snapped his finger and held out his hands. John scowled but handed over his phone. He knew when he was fighting a lost cause and he had no desire to be verbally assaulted in the middle of the Verizon store. The woman behind the counter just smirked.

Half an hour later he had a new, more cost-effective calling plan and a fancy phone that would probably take him weeks to figure out. Rodney messed around with it while John drove to the Portland City Grill, and by the time he’d parked Rodney was excitedly showing him a flight simulator app he’d added that was actually pretty cool.

“See? Way better than the old phone.”

“The old phone was fine,” John contradicted, but it was hard to keep the grin off his face as he tilted the phone in the direction he wanted the plane to go. Rodney just gave him a smug look and led the way inside.

Over Molsons and burgers gooey with Tillamook cheese Rodney and John discussed the division of labor that would be put into effect at the cottage. Rodney offered to do all dish washing and kitchen maintenance, claiming that it was the kind of brainless activity that let his mind focus on more complex problems. John offered to take over laundry detail, and they would share all cat-related chores, cooking and yard work. They both had some ideas for sprucing up the yard, and a promise was made to consider purchasing a lawnmower.

“We’ll just hire someone to clean the rest of the house once a week,” Rodney said, waving the waitress over for another beer.

“That’s a waste of money.” John pushed his pickle around the plate. “I’ve been keeping up with it without any problems. I don’t mind doing it.”

“If you don’t mind, I guess we can put that decision off. Once you start getting your business up and running, though, you’ll be glad to have a service to take care of things like that. We can talk about it then, I suppose. Are you getting dessert?”

John just stared at him.

Rodney glared back at him and sounded defensive when he said, “What? I just need a little something sweet after all that grease.”

John just shook his head and cast his eyes at a random point beyond Rodney’s shoulder while Rodney grilled the waitress about which desserts might contain citrus. The plan as he understood it was that he could stay at the cottage until June and then he’d have to find his own place. Rodney had indicated that he would help set up a business plan for the tourist charters, but now it seemed like maybe he was planning on John sticking around after his cut-off date. Or maybe John was making more of it than it was. Probably he’d do something tomorrow to piss Rodney off and then it wouldn’t matter anyway.

“Earth to John. Are you ready?” Rodney waved a hand in front of his face and John jerked back, startled out of his thoughts.

“I thought…no dessert?”

“Can’t trust that their citrus desserts haven’t contaminated the rest. I’ll grab a candy bar or something on the ride home. Let’s go, I still want to look at cameras today.” He tossed a handful of cash on the table, enough to cover the meal and a generous tip, and practically pushed John out the door.

Rodney chattered all the way to Bridgeport Village about how important it was to take pictures and document the everyday things. “You don’t realize how much you’re going to miss something, or…or some _one_ , until it’s too late and at least pictures help you remember, right?”

John just nodded, but he could detect a tone in Rodney’s voice that seemed almost melancholy. Again, he wondered what had happened to the man in the two years he’d been gone.

Instead of the mall he’d been expecting, Bridgeport Village turned out to be an outlet center with all the stores having outside access along pedestrian walkways. He parked in the lot near The Container Store and raised his eyebrows at some of the names he saw on storefronts. They were high-end businesses.

“What the hell are we doing here?”

Rodney frowned at him. “There’s a Ritz Camera outlet here, so I should be able to get a quality camera on the cheap. Don’t be a snob.”

“I’m not a snob,” John protested. He got out of the truck and followed Rodney, who seemed to know exactly where he was going. The Village was doing a brisk business for a Sunday and the walkways were full of people. John’s skin began to itch, just a little, as they wandered past a jewelry store and a New Balance outlet. Ritz Camera was squeezed in between Coldwater Creek and Barnes & Noble.

The next forty-five minutes were spent listening to Rodney asking increasingly complex questions about camera functions while John stayed near the door getting more and more agitated. It had been such a normal day but now it was like he’d reached his limit and there was nothing he could do. There were too many people, the spaces were too tight, the store too pressing with its shelves of cameras and photo albums and tripods and bags. He took deep breaths, or tried to, and visualized a Ferris wheel. That was his happy place, riding high atop the big wheel as close to the sky as he could get without a plane.

_Wide open spaces. Blue skies. Nothing up here but me. No reason to freak out. No reason for my chest to feel so tight._

“John?” Rodney was suddenly at his side, hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Can’t…breathe.”

“Oh, no. Where are your pills?” He began clumsily patting John down. “Didn’t you bring your pills?”

John shook his head. He had to get out of there and he tried to get past Rodney to reach the door, but he was pushed back into the corner.

“Hey, whoa there. Tell me what to do. Sheppard!”

“Out. I…outside.”

“Right. Okay.” Rodney dragged him out the door, shouting to the clerk over his shoulder to hold on to the camera, he’d be back. When John cringed away from a loud group of women passing by Rodney pulled him off the pedestrian walk and into the closest parking lot, which was right behind Anthropologie. 

“Sit down.” He pushed on John’s shoulder, forcing him down. John sat, knees drawn up, and closed his eyes.

_Wide open spaces. Blue skies. Nothing up here but me._

“Why the hell did you leave your pills at home? Are you stupid? No, I’m stupid. I should’ve realized the crowds here would be too much. It’s not like Cannon Beach.”

_Nothing up here but me and Rodney._

“That’s it, Sheppard. Just keeping taking deep breaths.” Rodney sat next to him, their shoulders pressed together. “I’m really not cut out for this kind of thing, you know. I don’t understand people…biology, I mean…at all. I wish Carson was here. He’d know what to do. Or, I don’t know – maybe next time you should just _bring your damn pills_. This is like me going out without an EpiPen. Do you have a death wish or something? Can you die from an anxiety attack?”

“You talk a lot,” John said, finally getting his breath back. There was something comforting about the way Rodney could ramble on about anything.

“I know. You okay now?”

“I’ll survive.” He blinked his eyes open and pushed at Rodney with his shoulder. “You done here?”

“I just need to grab the camera. Meet you at the car?”

“Sure.” John got to his feet and gave Rodney a hand up. “Sorry for…that.”

Rodney scowled at him. “The only thing you should be apologizing for is forgetting your pills. You don’t…I understand about… _Camera_. Gotta get the camera.”

They parted company, Rodney red in the face and John feeling surprisingly good. It was the first time he hadn’t felt like a complete freak after having a meltdown in public. How much of that was Rodney and how much was because he was making progress with therapy was anyone’s guess.

One thing was certain – he was going to have plenty to talk to Dr. Marshall about during tomorrow’s visit.

*o*o*o*

Rodney was still sleeping when John was ready to head out for his therapy appointment, and he wasn’t sure if he should leave a note or not. Would Rodney remember that Mondays were his Dr. Marshall days? Would he even care? John stood in the kitchen, indecisive for a good five minutes before digging in the junk drawer for paper and a pen. He scrawled a hasty message on the back of a receipt and stuck it to the fridge with a magnet shaped like Oregon.

It was only a forty-mile drive from Cannon Beach to Astoria and John tried to use that time to figure out what the deal was with Rodney. He was by turns rude, bossy, skittish, sympathetic and enigmatic. John wanted to know more about him, particularly the events of the last two years that had left him seemingly so lost. Beyond that, he wanted to see if the reality of Rodney could live up to the fantasy of the man he’d created in his head, crafted out of the words in the journal and inane notes in the margins of books.

By the time he got to Dr. Marshall’s office he was no closer to coming up with a plan. He wanted to do something for Rodney, though, as a way to say thank you. While he sat in the waiting room he used his new phone to look up camera straps for Rodney’s fancy new digital camera. He’d picked a good-sized Canon after a lengthy rant about how the little point and shoots didn’t give him anything to grip and how easy it would be to drop one. By the time John had found the perfect strap and set up an account for himself on Amazon, it was time for his session.

Dr. Marshall hadn’t been what John was expecting in a therapist. There were no tweed coats, no horn-rimmed glasses or carefully sculpted goatee. Instead there were polo shirts and Converse sneakers and tattoos, which probably went a long way to explaining why John felt so comfortable with him.

“Good to see you, John. Have a seat.” 

He did as directed, sinking into one of the sinfully comfortable leather chairs that were used for single sessions. There was a long couch for couples or larger groups and John had often thought he might like to lay down on that while he talked, though he’d never asked.

“So, how have things been going?” Dr. Marshall sat opposite him and set his digital recorder on the low table that was between them. The sleeves of his shirt were rucked up, showing the bottom half of a tiger on one arm, the tail curling around his wrist.

“One flashback, one anxiety attack, and, oh yeah. Rodney’s back.”

The therapist’s eyes widened. “No kidding! That must be shaking things up for you.”

John nodded. “It’s been…weird.”

“Would you care to elaborate on that a bit? How is this impacting your day to day life?”

“He’s moved into the spare room. Says I can stay until my lease expires, even after…”

“After?”

John sighed. “I had to tell him about the journal. And he was mad. Really mad. He left for the day, I didn’t know where he was, but then he came back and still seems like he’s not going to kick me out. I don’t know why.”

“Is he understanding of your condition?”

“Yeah, actually. He talked me down from an anxiety attack yesterday.”

“And how did you feel about that?” Dr. Marshall asked.

“Surprisingly okay. I mean, I hate having them but…it was better not having to deal with strangers, you know?”

“Ah, but John. He _is_ a stranger. Don’t confuse the Rodney from the journal with the one that’s living in your house. You’ll be dealing with unrealistic expectations and that won’t be fair to either of you.”

John couldn’t argue with that, not when he’d been thinking the same thing on his drive in. He knew that Rodney had two years of experiences that changed the person he was when he wrote that journal. He couldn’t be the same, no-one could, because people were constantly changing. He knew that, he did.

“I wish he could be the same,” he said, looking down at his hands. “I’d gotten used to him being that way, you know?”

“Consider this,” Dr. Marshall said, leaning forward. “He’s letting you stay. He’s giving you the chance to get to know him properly this time. Don’t spend so much time wishing for what you had, or you’ll miss the chance at something better. Something real.”

“I’ll try,” John promised.

“Now, tell me about the flashback and what precipitated it.”

*o*o*o*

As always, John’s therapy session left him feeling drained and a little husked out. He was feeling pretty good about Dr. Marshall, though. The man had believed him about Rodney without requiring outside corroboration and that meant a lot.

It was still early, so he stopped by the bakery on his way back to Cannon Beach and picked up an assortment of pastries. So far it looked like it might be a nice day and John thought maybe he’d let Rodney fly the Beechcraft today, see what ideas he had for performance enhancement.

The cottage was quiet when he got back, and he wondered if his housemate was still sleeping. He kicked off his sneakers by the front door, put the box of pastries on the kitchen counter and scooped some food into the cat dish, which brought both Tribby and Snoopy running. John glanced at the clock. It was almost eleven thirty and he wondered if he should wake Rodney. In the few days they’d lived together he’d never known the man to sleep much past eight or eight-thirty.

Uncertain again, he padded up the stairs and stood in front of the door to the spare room. His internal debate was cut short when he heard the unmistakable sound of crying coming from behind the door. He froze in place, feeling guilty at having caught Rodney in a moment of weakness. John reached for the doorknob and then pulled his hand back. Would he be welcome if he barged in right now? He knew what it felt like when someone saw him trapped in a flashback, how mortifying it was. But then he remembered how nice it had been yesterday having Rodney there to help ease him out of the anxiety attack.

Steeling his spine, John gave the door a perfunctory knock before opening it and walking in. Rodney was sitting on the floor between the bed and the wall, his knees drawn up and curled in on himself, big hands covering his face. He was clearly trying to stop the sobs that were ripping out of his throat, but it was obvious to John that he was losing the battle. Seeing Rodney hurting so badly gave him a sympathetic ache in his chest.

“Hey, buddy.” He sat down next to Rodney so that they were touching from hip to shoulder. He could feel the other man’s violent tremors as if they were his own. 

There was a piece of paper on the floor and John picked it up. Not paper but a photograph that had fallen upside down. It was a picture of Rodney with four other people in a lab of some kind. They all wore bi-colored uniforms that had patches on them he couldn’t make out. Rodney was on the far left, looking stern, but the other four were all smiles. One of the men had hair that looked as if it had been styled using electric shock, and the only woman was Asian and almost laughably tiny behind ridiculously large glasses.

Rodney snatched it out of John’s hand and held it to his chest, arms crossed over it protectively. “Don’t touch that!”

His face was a mess, red and splotchy and wet from tears and snot. It made John want to hold him close and rock him until he felt better. Which was crazy.

“Co-workers?” he asked softly. 

“Don’t,” Rodney said, but the vehemence of a moment ago had left and now he just sounded tired and small.

John decided to change the subject. “It’s really nice out today. I thought we might take the plane out. You could see how she handles, maybe scare some unsuspecting tourists.”

The trembling next to him seemed to ease a bit, and Rodney reached out to fumble on the nightstand for the box of tissues there. Taking a page from the McKay playbook John just kept talking.

“Oh, and I brought pastries for breakfast. There’s a pretty nice bakery in Astoria, The Blue Scorcher. It’s all organic. And they come to the farmer’s market here pretty often, too.”

“Pastries?” Rodney asked. He blew his nose and mopped at his face with a handful of tissues. There was still a hitch in his voice but he seemed to be getting himself under control.

“Yup. Fairy cakes and chocolate croissants, and the best cinnamon buns you’ll ever have. Guaranteed. And yes, I made sure not a crumb of citrus came near them.”

Rodney still wouldn’t look at him, but the trembling had finally stopped. The photograph was carefully laid on the nightstand next to the tissues. 

“So I was thinking,” John continued. “That we just take the whole day off. No more unpacking or planning our futures. We’ll eat fattening foods and play with the plane and watch a movie or something. Maybe you can try out that fancy new camera of yours.”

“We…” Rodney paused to clear his throat. “We need to go grocery shopping.”

“Tomorrow. We have plenty enough to get by on for one day.” When it became clear that his housemate still wasn’t quite ready to get moving John decided to give him something personal, another little bit of himself to make up for reading the journal.

“When I was ten I wanted to learn to play the guitar. One of my friends had an older brother that played and he could just shred on that thing, it was so awesome. My dad wouldn’t let me. I was supposed to take over the family business and businessmen didn’t play instruments, they played sports. I was mad at him for a long time because of that. And I refused to play football or baseball, the two sports he thought were appropriate.”

“What did you do?” And finally Rodney was looking at him, still a bit red in the face but clearly interested.

“I did track, ran cross country. And got guitar lessons on the sly.” 

They grinned at each other, and then John levered himself up and gave Rodney a hand.

“I’ll bet you’re pretty good at both.”

John shrugged. “Passable. Couldn’t run fast enough, so I had to learn to fly.” It was meant as a joke, but the look in Rodney’s eyes assured him it wasn’t taken that way.

“I probably should’ve mentioned this days ago,” Rodney said a little shyly. “But I’m kind of an emotional wreck myself.”

“Join the club.” John clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll get t-shirts.”

*o*o*o*

The day had started out so well. After gorging themselves on pastries, John and Rodney had taken the remote-controlled plane outside and took turns flying it. As expected, Rodney had filled up several sheets of paper with equations and drawings and plans for their next plane, and John was feeling that maybe the real Rodney wasn’t so bad after all.

But then the clouds had moved in, rain started to fall, and they’d retreated indoors. Rodney put on the original Star Wars trilogy and popped some popcorn. They settled in on the couch together and got through three quarters of the first movie before the thunderstorm started. John forced himself to sit still, to ignore the itching on his skin. The worse the storm got, the tenser John got until he’d lost the thread of the movie and started counting the time between lightning flashes and thunder rumbles.

“Oh, for the love of…just go take your damn pills!” Rodney rolled his eyes and gave John a shove, which about made him jump out of his skin. “Seriously, you’re wound up tighter than…something tight. Go!”

John grimaced but felt relieved nonetheless as he fairly rocketed off the couch and up the stairs. He knew it was foolish, knew he didn’t have to pretend he was fine for Rodney, but he couldn’t help feeling a little unmanned by the continued weakness of his mind. Although, considering that Rodney had spent the morning crying like a little kid he supposed it was all relative.

He’d just had his Ativan with a water chaser when there was a particularly blinding flash of lightning followed immediately by a crack of thunder so loud it rattled the windows, and the lights went out. The bedroom was immediately plunged into darkness that flashed intermittently with the lightning, creating an unsettling strobe effect.

John was immediately gripped with fear, but none of it was for himself. “Rodney!” He dashed towards the door, careening painfully off the wall as he did so, and out into the hall. He felt with absolute certainty that Rodney was in danger and needed to be secured. What that danger was hardly seemed relevant, though a part of him was vaguely cognizant that this wasn’t rational behavior.

The storm was raging overhead, the combination of pounding rain, howling wind and cracking thunder making it impossible to hear anything else. John hugged the wall, keeping to the shadows as much as possible between lightning flashes. His heart was racing and he kept reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there.

Another flash revealed someone at the top of the stairs not two feet away. As soon as the darkness returned John made his move, going in for a tackle. He hooked the target around the waist, pulling him down and away from the stairs. They rolled once, enough for John to straddle the target, knees pinning his arms to the floor. More lightning and he found himself looking down at Rodney, his blue eyes wide and startled and filled with fear.

“John?”

John clapped his hand over Rodney’s mouth with a hiss. As quickly as he’d taken him down he got him back up and immediately moved him into the master bedroom. He locked the door as soon as they were inside, pushed Rodney down on the bed, and manhandled the extra nightstand in front of the door. It wasn’t much, but in the time it took to move it out of the way he and Rodney could be out the window in the master bathroom and onto the porch roof.

“Sheppard! What are you doing?”

“Stay down, Rodney!” John slipped back to the bed and dragged Rodney off so they were both sitting on the floor beside it, near the bathroom door.

“Okay. You know my name, so not a flashback. Why the hell didn’t you take your pill earlier? _Imbecile_. You _have_ taken it now, right? I hope like hell you did, because I can’t wrangle a crazy Sheppard right now.” Rodney’s voice, which had already become so welcomingly familiar, was threaded through with fear. That, more than anything, helped push back the formless panic that was beating at John’s breast, because Rodney was afraid of _him_ and that was all kinds of wrong.

“Maybe this was a mistake,” he prattled on, increasingly agitated. “It’s not fair for both of us to be this messed up, there’s no-one to be in charge. I need…someone needs to be in charge and it can’t be me. Sheppard? Are you in there or am I just talking to myself?”

John forced himself to open his mouth and say something not-crazy. “Don’t leave.” Which, okay, wasn’t crazy, but pathetic wasn’t quite what he was going for either.

Rodney let out an explosive breath. “Geez. You need to stop getting lost in your head. And stay medicated. We’re _not_ doing this again.”

Silence stretched out between them after that. The storm moved on, the onslaught from Mother Nature less of a pounding force, and they settled more comfortably there on the floor. John rocked his right foot back and forth on the heel, his nerves showing. But the Ativan was finally starting to work and it took the phantom anxiety with it. Rodney grabbed one of the pillows off the bed and hugged it to his chest.

John knew he had to man up, do the right thing here. He didn’t want to leave, but he obviously couldn’t stay. Rodney was right, he was too high maintenance and that wasn’t fair for anyone. Best for him to just be on his own again. He wondered if he could leave Snoopy there, since he seemed to be getting on with Tribby so well. Would that count as abandonment?

“Hey.” Rodney bumped him with his shoulder. “You okay?”

“I’ll go,” John said quietly, watching his foot move. There was less lightning, and he was glad to have the dark to hide in. “You’re right.”

“No! I mean…forget what I said. I was just…it didn’t…it’s really not a good idea for me to be alone right now.”

“Rodney.”

“They’re dead,” Rodney replied, and there was a tremor in his voice. “The people in the picture. They’re all dead, except me.”

There was nothing he could say to that, so John kept his mouth shut. But he shifted closer, pressing up against Rodney like he’d done that morning, offering what little comfort he could.

“They said I have survivor guilt. Ridiculous. Why should I feel guilty about being alive? I was the Chief Science Officer, the smartest man they had. My survival was essential to the mission.”

It should have sounded cold and incredibly heartless, but John could hear it for what it was – Rodney was trying to convince himself he felt that way, when it was obvious he didn’t. Those people meant something to him, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

“Tell me their names?” John asked. There was power in names, he’d learned that well enough himself in therapy. He didn’t know if it would help Rodney, but he was certain it wouldn’t hurt him any worse than he was already hurting.

“David,” Rodney whispered, and the pain in his voice had John reaching for his hand. “Miko. Peter. Radek.”

He stumbled over the last name, and John wondered if that was the one he’d been closest to. The man who’d written how bad he was at making friends had made them just the same, and then lost them. He didn’t know what kind of hot zone they’d been in, but he understood the pain of that kind of loss all too well. Without any conscious thought he wrapped his fingers around Rodney’s and held on as tightly as he could.

“They were good people. Friends. And I couldn’t do anything to save them. I was the smartest man on the expedition and nothing I did mattered.” There were tears now. John shifted again so he could rest his head on Rodney’s shoulder.

“Is that why you came back?”

“What? Oh. No, that’s not why. The mission was a failure, they said.” Rodney pulled in a deep, shuddery breath. “Thing is, it wouldn’t have been. If we’d had the right personnel it could’ve been amazing. But it was fucked right from the start. So many dead…and I’m back here like nothing happened, like the last two years were nothing and that’s all they’ll ever be except for the people who were there. No-one else will know the things we found, the things we saw. Beautiful things. Horrifying things. I did things. Things I can’t ever take back.”

The words drifted to a stop, as if he was exhausted by the end of it. And maybe he was. There was a prickly, hot ball of anger in John’s gut. What the hell had they been thinking, to send Rodney into the middle of some doomed mission where people were dying? It wasn’t right. He hadn’t said, exactly, but John was almost sure Rodney’d had to take lives. It was unavoidable in a war zone, even for an astrophysicist who’d adamantly refused to build weapons.

“I’m glad you survived,” he said softly, and he was almost sure he felt Rodney press a feather-light kiss to the top of his head.

*o*o*o*

Things could’ve been awkward the next day but somehow they weren’t. Rodney made a frittata for breakfast that wasn’t half bad, and then dragged John out to go grocery shopping. They went to the Safeway up in Seaside because it had a Starbucks, which of course was Rodney’s first stop. Once they started the actual shopping, John quickly realized the only thing he was expected to do was push the cart.

Rodney was a very methodical shopper. They started in produce and went aisle by aisle, and he read every food label very carefully for the barest hint of citrus in the ingredients. John expected to be irritated and antsy within the first twenty minutes, but he found he didn’t mind the slow pace or Rodney’s attention to detail.

“We should get some corned beef hash,” he suggested, interrupting an avid contemplation of a can of baked beans.

“Hash? Are you joking?” Rodney looked at him as if he’d grown an extra head. “Why not just get a can of dog food, for God’s sake? You’re not cooking any of that in my kitchen.”

“Hey, it’s my kitchen too. Until June, at least.”

“Sorry. I’m invoking landlord’s veto. No hash.”

“Then I’m gonna want extra snack cakes.”

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Yes, okay. You be five years old and get your snack cakes.”

John considered it a win and smirked. Turned out Rodney was fun to shop with if you knew what to say to wind him up. They argued over cuts of meat, fresh mushrooms versus canned, brands of toilet paper, and what types of juice were safe to have in the fridge. John played at the unfairness of not being able to have OJ just because Rodney was allergic, though the truth of it was that he’d already decided he could live without it.

They were in the cereal aisle when Rodney had his epiphany, which at first looked to John like an aneurysm. He stood there with a box of Frosted Mini Wheats in one hand, fingers of the other hand snapping rapidly, all while his mouth gaped open like a landed trout.

“Rodney? Rodney!”

He jerked and then looked at John with a big grin on his face. “That’s it! I know exactly what you should do in the off season!”

John waited, but Rodney just continued to stand there and look at him expectantly. “Well, for those of us without the genius IQ or the ability to read minds, a clue would be nice.”

“I’m sure you’d have thought of it eventually on your own,” Rodney said equably. “Because it’s obvious. Flight school!”

“I already know how to fly.”

“You know, just when I think you’ve got an ounce of intelligence underneath all that hair you disappoint me, Sheppard.” Rodney shook his head sadly. “You could _teach_ flight school. Surely there are people who pay for that kind of thing. You can…I don’t know…make them love it too.”

John stared at him, unexpectedly moved by the sentiment. And intrigued by the idea. “We’d have to look it up, find out what’s involved. I know I have the flight time.”

“I can only presume you have the skill,” Rodney said with a crooked grin.

“I can fly anything.”

“Well, for right now fly that shopping cart and let’s get this done.”

The Mini Wheats were tossed into the cart and they went a bit quicker through the remaining aisles. John very nicely didn’t comment on all the chocolate bars Rodney picked out, and so he didn’t feel guilty about the corn dogs. All the attention that had been paid to labels fled when it was time to pack the bags, and John took that over and made sure everything was organized just so.

“Must be the military training,” Rodney commented.

“Nope. I just have hidden depths.”

“I don’t doubt that in the slightest.”

*o*o*o*

Despite a rocky start, life with Rodney soon settled into a comfortable routine. They took turns fixing breakfast in the morning, and Rodney insisted that Mondays were pastry days, which meant a stop at the bakery after John’s therapy session. John had his Saturday breakfast at Pig’n Pancake, with Rodney happy to tag along, but regular get-togethers with Maggie and Ben had been put on hold for the time being. John and Rodney needed to work on their own dynamic before adding other people to it.

They slowly started to acclimate to sharing the cottage, which was mostly about learning how to stay out of each other’s way. When Rodney retreated to the study he didn’t like being disturbed for any reason other than a major catastrophe or health emergency, though John was pretty sure that his frequent forays to the kitchen for coffee were more about making sure his housemate’s mental health was still mostly stable and less about the need for caffeine.

For his part, John tried to keep snacks available because he noticed that when Rodney got heavily involved in a project he’d forget things like eating and drinking, and John was afraid he’d go into hypoglycemic shock. He’d researched it online to know what symptoms to look for. It explained the coffee tin full of Skittles in the garage, which was probably there in case of a low blood sugar emergency. He found he could unobtrusively slip into the study around lunch time and slide a plate of food onto the desk without Rodney even looking up as he typed away with frenetic speed.

John was glad to have someone to take care of, however much Rodney probably didn’t need it. It was a nice distraction from all the noise in his head, and part of him felt that if he was able to keep Dr. Rodney McKay alive and functioning then there was hope for him after all. He had the sneaking suspicion that Rodney probably felt the same way about him.

It was late afternoon, about a week after his thunderstorm-induced freak-out, and John was spending it in the living room with his guitar. He wasn’t playing any particular song, just strumming random cords and fiddling with the tuning keys to get the sound right. He’d needed a break from writing in his journal, something new that Dr. Marshall had him doing. He was supposed to write down his experiences in Afghanistan, in whatever method worked. He’d found it easiest to write down whatever popped into his head rather than try a linear retelling. The whole process was hard, particularly because he wasn’t much of a writer, and he needed to step away from it frequently just to keep from getting frustrated.

Rodney poked his head in, taking his own break and checking in. “Can you actually play anything on that, or do you just dabble?”

John gave him a contemplative look before waving him into the empty chair. He plugged in the portable amp and took the strings through one more sound check. He could’ve played any of the numerous songs he knew, but he wanted to show off a little and so he settled for Malagueña because of the intricate finger work involved.

It didn’t take long for John to forget Rodney was even in the room. He closed his eyes and rode the notes like a wave, almost holding his breath through the quickest sections. By the time he reached the end of the song his fingers were throbbing – he hadn’t played that particular piece in a long time, and he was still building up callouses. He blinked his eyes open to find Rodney staring at him with the oddest expression on his face.

“I’m out of practice,” he said apologetically.

“That was…You’re… _Wow_.”

John felt himself flushing and ducked his head. He switched off the amp and ran his palm over the strings, making them whisper-whine.

“You’re a complex guy.” Rodney sounded awestruck, but maybe John was just reading him wrong. “I’m…the way you looked…”

The moment was quickly turning awkward and John wasn’t sure why, but he was relieved when a knock on the front door provided a distraction. Rodney waved him off and got up to answer it. John put the guitar back in the case and wrapped up the cord for the amp.

“Package,” Rodney said when he came back in. He tossed it to John, who looked at the return address and then tossed it back.

“It’s for you.”

“What?”

“I got it for you,” John said with a shrug. “It’s nothing big.”

Rodney gave him a suspicious look. “You bought me something? Why? What is it?”

“Just open it, McKay.” John pulled a pocket knife out of his pocket and tossed it to Rodney, who dropped the package to catch it. He scowled and sat down, using his foot to drag the package close enough for him to pick up. He flipped the knife open and sliced through the top of the padded envelope. John watched nervously, not sure how his gift would be received.

Rodney slid the camera strap out of the package and unrolled it. It looked even better than it had online – black fabric with a repetitive stars and planets design. Embroidered down the length in metallic blue was To Boldly Go. He just stared at it, quiet so long that John started to fidget in his seat.

“Look, it’s just something silly, okay? You don’t have to use it.”

Rodney ran one hand over the words and didn’t look up when he spoke. “People don’t usually give me gifts. I generally don’t inspire that kind of thoughtfulness.”

Something twisted in John’s chest at the tone of Rodney’s voice – it was like he felt he wasn’t worthy of the gesture. Had no-one ever taken the time to get to know him, to see the kind-hearted man beneath the prickly exterior? John reached over and put his hand on Rodney’s knee.

“I just wanted to thank you. For letting me stay here. And helping with…you know. My _stuff_.”

Rodney finally looked up at him, his eyes bright and his mouth quivering just a little. They stared at each other for a long minute, John hyper-aware that he was still touching the other man.

“I have to get back to work,” Rodney said. He handed back the pocket knife and clutched the camera strap to his chest. “I really…this is great. Thank you.”

John watched him hurry back to the study and heard the door close with a decisive thud. He ran a hand through his unruly hair and sighed. Rodney was right, they were both way too messed up.

*o*o*o*

John shivered to wakefulness, his feet icy cold. His legs nearly gave out under him and he tightened his grip on…a doorknob. _Not again_. He was standing out in the hall, and from the way he was feeling he’d been there a while. It was dark save for the nightlight glowing a few feet away and he wondered what time it was. And how long he’d been standing in front of Rodney’s room with his hand on the knob.

As he continued to take stock of the situation he was mortified to realize that he was achingly hard, his erection poking out the top of his boxer briefs. What if Rodney caught him like this? He’d have to kill himself. He let go of the doorknob, unable to stop from giving it a testing turn before he did so. It was locked, thank God.

John turned and stumbled back to his room, his legs all pins and needles from standing still too long. He got back in bed, lying atop the tumbled sheets but tucking his feet under the extra blanket that lay across the foot of the bed. He didn’t know what the hell possessed him to go to Rodney’s room. If he’d had an erotic dream he certainly didn’t remember it.

He wanted to touch himself, ease the ache, but he felt funny doing it with Rodney right down the hall. Particularly since it was maybe because of Rodney that he was so hard to start with. John told himself that there was nothing to worry about because it was just a natural response to someone he found attractive, with whom he shared unavoidable proximity. He knew Rodney wasn’t a homophobe, but that didn’t mean he’d welcome any gay advances either. Neither one of them was in a very stable mental place at the moment and that surely was as good a reason as any why even thinking about sex and Rodney together was a very bad idea.

Still, John couldn’t help thinking about that crooked mouth, the way it expressed so much with a single downturn or a shy smile. Broad shoulders, and dexterous fingers that danced over a laptop keyboard almost as gracefully as they might over piano keys. In spite of himself, he reached down and pressed the heel of his hand against his erection, sighing at how good it felt to finally touch.

“Oh…”

John snapped to attention, sitting up and hastily pulling his blankets up over his lap. Rodney was standing in the doorway – John had forgotten to close the door – with his mouth hanging open. The nightlight made odd shadows over him, but the surprised expression on his face was easy enough to see. John’s own face flamed, and for a moment he was transported back to that day when he was thirteen and one of the pretty young housemaids had caught him jerking off in the bathroom. Now, as then, he wished a hole would appear and swallow him up.

He didn’t have the first clue what to say, though _I’m sorry_ was already on the tip of his tongue. This was followed rapidly by defensive annoyance. Why should _he_ be sorry? If he wanted to touch himself in the middle of the night, in his _own room_ , he shouldn’t have to apologize to anyone. Before he could really work himself up Rodney started talking.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…that is, I heard you. Outside my door. And I wasn’t sure if you were sleepwalking or…or something, but you were out there for a long time, and then you were gone. I just wanted…I _wanted_ …” He seemed to run out of words, though his hands continued to twitch as if there was more he would say if he could just find a way to do it.

“No harm done,” John heard himself say. He waited for Rodney to turn and go back to his room, but instead he came closer, stepping so carefully the floor could’ve been made of glass.

“You touch me. A lot.”

“I don’t…”

“You _do_.” And of course Rodney was right. John had been doing a lot of touching, though he wanted to point out that it hadn’t been all one-sided. If he thought about it, _really_ thought about it, he could admit to himself that he might be a little starved for human contact, the warmth of someone else’s hand on his shoulder, his back, his face. He’d been alone for a long time. So long since anyone had touched him, so long since he’d _wanted_ someone to.

“I like it,” Rodney said shyly. He’d reached the side of the bed and stood looming over John. That close he could see the expression on the other man’s face, the desire and longing and fear written so clearly there.

“This is a bad idea,” John whispered, forcing the words out as Rodney sank to his knees beside the bed, elbows on the mattress and looking for all the world like he was about to say prayers before bedtime.

“This is a _terrible_ idea,” Rodney agreed. He reached out with one hand and let it hover just above John’s arm for a moment before dropping it down to fiddle with the blanket. “Do you know how long it’s been since someone’s touched me? I just want…I want someone to _touch_ me.”

His voice broke, and something inside John broke as well. He and Rodney were so goddamn much alike sometimes that it was a little scary, but he couldn’t ignore it or deny it, not in the face of Rodney’s courage in even bringing up something so incredibly personal. He stretched his arm out until he could cup Rodney’s scalp in his palm, long fingers carding through his wavy brown hair. It was so simple, and completely non-sexual, but John felt it like a shot of electricity all the way up his arm. Even more so when Rodney leaned into it, eyes closed and mouth trembling.

“Worst idea _ever_ ,” John murmured, and then he tugged on Rodney’s shoulder until the other man got with the program and came up on the bed. Suddenly he had the heat of another body pressed against him from chest to thighs and it wasn’t enough, would never be enough. John wrapped his arms around Rodney, his hands sliding up under Rodney’s t-shirt to touch the skin on his back.

Rodney touched him back and it was easier because John didn’t wear a shirt to bed. Those big, deft hands skated across his chest, his shoulders, and set the muscles in his abdomen twitching. Even in this Rodney couldn’t be quiet, couldn’t work without a running commentary, and all John felt was mindless affection.

“Oh, God, you’re ridiculous. No-one should be this hot. Hmmmm. Yeah, that’s good.” Rodney shivered as John lightly scraped his nails down the length of his back. “Don’t get lost, okay? Stay with me. Please.”

John couldn’t take that, the raw vulnerability in his voice, and so he kissed him hard, demanded and received entrance to his mouth, and who knew the genius could kiss so well? Rodney put everything he had into that kiss, it seemed, until John’s head was spinning and he couldn’t think past that one moment, that one kiss, that one touch.

Their still-clothed erections bumped against each other and John arched up even as Rodney pressed down. John wrenched his mouth away, lips swollen and wet, and firmed his grip on Rodney’s hips.

“ _Rodney_ …”

The man was a genius, he really was, because in the next breath he shoved John’s underwear down and had his hand wrapped around the hard, aching length of him, and John had never felt anything so good in all his life. Rodney’s hand moved in long, firm strokes, his thumb gliding over the head, and it wasn’t long before John’s back was bowing and he was coming and coming, every nerve ending glowing with white hot fire.

It took him a moment to come down from that high, during which Rodney idly stroked his hip with one big hand. John turned his head, kissing the lips that were right there waiting for him. Rodney moved a little, not breaking the kiss, and it took John a minute or two to work out that he was taking off his boxers. Needing no further encouragement, he slid one hand down Rodney’s stomach, rucking up his t-shirt as he did so.

“God. John.” Rodney arched into the touch, even before John dragged his fingers along the other man’s cock. There were no more words now, just needy noises, as John licked his palm and began stroking in earnest, fast and hard. It wasn’t very long before Rodney was tensing and spilling into John’s hand, onto John’s belly, moaning helplessly into the side of John’s neck.

It was fast and dirty, and exactly what John had needed. Having Rodney cuddled up beside him afterwards, panting and half naked, should’ve been weird. None of his past encounters with men had included enjoying the afterglow. But it wasn’t weird. It was…nice.

“ _Best_ idea ever,” Rodney huffed out. He pressed a wet kiss to John’s shoulder. “I hope you still respect me in the morning.”

“I’ll respect you right now if you get something to clean up with.”

That earned him a snort, but Rodney rolled over John – carefully avoiding the mess on his stomach – and disappeared into the bathroom. In the time he was gone John tried to feel himself out, see if he was going to have a problem with what just happened, but he was too damn tired. And then Rodney was back with a warm washcloth, which he used to very fastidiously clean every trace of come off John’s torso. He returned the washcloth to the bathroom and then stood in the middle of the bedroom, boxers hanging from one hand, shifting uncertainly from foot to foot.

“So…um. I should probably…” he inclined his head towards the door.

John wasn’t sure what the protocol was. His previous encounters with men hadn’t been the sleepover variety. He wanted Rodney to stay, to have that solid warmth in his bed to anchor him, but found he couldn’t ask for it. Instead he shrugged.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Well…goodnight.” Rodney was gone before John could reply in kind.

He was tired, wrung out, but not enough to fall asleep right away. Instead, John turned on his side and pulled the blankets up, watching the numbers change on the alarm clock for three quarters of an hour. For the first time in a very long time he was painfully aware of the empty space in the bed beside him.

*o*o*o*

John slept uncharacteristically late the next morning. When he finally stumbled down the stairs in search of coffee he found a full pot waiting for him and a note from Rodney that merely said _Gone out. Back later_. That was fine by John, who didn’t mind putting off whatever awkward encounter they’d have today. Not that he regretted what happened, not exactly. Not when the memory of it made the corners of his mouth twitch up in an almost-grin. He just didn’t know what he was supposed to do next.

One and a half cups of coffee later, John hit the beach. He wore a sweatshirt and board shorts, and Teva water shoes on his feet. He walked along the shoreline, ignoring the few people who were also braving the blustery winds. He was glad for the relative solitude because it gave him a chance to clear his head.

He didn’t understand how his life had gotten so complicated. His quiet cottage on the beach had now been infiltrated by two cats and an emotionally scarred astrophysicist. If that wasn’t already enough, another wrench had been thrown into the works. Why had he encouraged Rodney last night? Had he taken advantage of him, or had John himself been taken advantage of? Maybe liberties had been taken on both sides.

_I want someone to touch me_. Such a simple thing, touch. John had needed it just as badly as Rodney, had felt _starved_ for it, and was having a hard time regretting it. Would, in fact, probably do it all over again if he ever got the chance. It seemed incredibly foolish, all things considered. He barely knew Rodney, for one thing. He also had to consider that, given his own mental instabilities, he was unfit to be in any sort of relationship. Hell, that was true even _before_ the PTSD.

The big unknown at the moment was Rodney. John couldn’t predict how he’d handle things, if he’d be upset or clingy or something else altogether. Of course, there was also the possibility that John was reading too much into the whole thing, over-thinking it. 

John sighed and turned to head back. He was too hungry to put off whatever confrontation awaited him when Rodney returned from wherever it was he went. Turned out he didn’t have to wait long, because his housemate was pacing on the porch, a large manila envelope clutched in his hand.

“Sheppard! There you are! Where have you been?” As soon as John was close enough Rodney grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside. “Never mind, look what came! It’s the paperwork from NAFI!”

John grabbed the envelope, which was being waved dangerously close to his eyes. They’d sent an inquiry to the National Association of Flight Instructors – well, Rodney had nagged him to death until he’d done so – to find out more about how he could get certified as a flight instructor

“I don’t suppose you made breakfast?” John asked hopefully. When he got a blank stare in return he rolled his eyes and pushed past Rodney to get to the kitchen. “Did you eat?”

“Eat?”

“Yeah, you know. Food? Eggs? Something?”

“But NAFI…”

“Food first, McKay.”

Rodney boosted himself up to sit on the counter. “I already ate.”

“Well, I didn’t.” John rummaged through the fridge and pulled out a couple of eggs and a slice of cheese. It didn’t take long to scramble them up and melt the cheese on top. He ate leaning against the island, across from where Rodney was sitting. “So where’d you go?”

“Needed to clear my head.” Rodney swung his legs, the heels of his shoes thudding against the cabinet doors. “I went to Clatsop, poked around the Physics department.”

“The community college?” John wondered if there was some reason that Rodney couldn’t stay closer to home when he needed to work through things, although at least this time he hadn’t felt the need to drive to a whole other state.

“It’s a dinky department,” Rodney said with tremendous amounts of scorn. “Whatever poor undergrads are taking Physics are having a disservice done to them, I assure you.”

“You looking for a job?” John scraped the last bit of egg off his plate and moved to the sink to wash his dirty dishes.

“Are you kidding me? I’m not going to waste my intelligence on a room full of undergrads.”

“Well, no, we wouldn’t want that.” John suppressed a grin.

“It’s just…I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now, you know?” Rodney sighed. “All my best, most revolutionary work is classified and being held hostage by the US government. Do I get back to independent consulting? Just keep writing my memoirs, which can never be published because they’d be so highly redacted as to be unreadable? What?”

He looked at John as if he held all the answers, and John wished that were true. Rodney was so keen on helping with the flight school idea and he hadn’t given any thought to the fact that his resident genius might be at loose ends. After all, he’d been gone for two years and during that time had probably lost a lot of his contacts. Not to mention the gap he’d now have in his resume. 

“Is there something you’ve always wanted to do?” John asked. He set his empty plate on the counter. “Maybe this is a good time to change things up for yourself.”

“Hmmm.” Rodney looked thoughtful. “I guess you could be right. I’ll have to give that some thought.”

John nodded and gave him a chuck on the shoulder. He picked up his plate and moved to the sink to wash it and the pan he’d used. Surely there must be an infinite number of things that Rodney could do. With that big brain he’d be good at anything he set his mind to.

He finished up the dishes and dried his hands, surprised to find that Rodney was still in the kitchen, still sitting on the counter and watching him with an almost sorrowful expression on his face.

“Rodney?”

“I know it’s probably not the right thing, I mean, I know guys don’t talk about this stuff.”

John’s breath caught and he felt frozen in place. He should’ve known Rodney would want to talk about it, when there was nothing he’d like to talk about _less_.

“You don’t…”

“Yes, I _do_ ,” Rodney insisted, though he was unable to look John in the eye. “I just…it feels like I took advantage of the situation, and that’s the last thing I wanted to do. I’m not that guy, I mean, _really_ not. I know you have a lot of stuff going on and it wasn’t fair of me to just assume. I don’t want things to be weird between us, okay?”

He sounded so earnest and contrite. John wasn’t sure what to say and found himself looking down at his bare feet as if inspiration would come from the floor tiles or his toenails or something.

“Rodney –”

But Rodney wasn’t finished. “Thing is, I can’t read people. Like, at all. Gaydar? Don’t have it. I can make sense of virtually any mathematical equation or computer algorithm, but people? Too hard. There’s just too many variables, you know?”

He was rambling, his voice starting to edge into a hysterical register, and John couldn’t take any more of his self-deprecation. He put his hand on Rodney’s knee and squeezed, hard.

“You didn’t take advantage of me, okay? I wanted it too.” _Needed_ it. God, how he’d needed it. “You didn’t offend my delicate sensibilities.”

Rodney snorted. “Not much about you that’s delicate, Sheppard.”

“Try and remember that,” John shot back. He gave Rodney’s knee one more squeeze and then walked away before things could get any more touchy-feely.

*o*o*o*

Rodney kept to himself more than usual for the next two days and John was surprised to find that he missed spending so much time with him. He thought he’d be relieved to avoid awkward conversations but that wasn’t the case at all. At least he was staying in the house this time, locked away in the study doing who-knows-what at odd hours of the day.

John kept to his normal schedule and tried not to worry. He cooked dinner, leaving a plate wrapped up in the microwave for Rodney. Whenever he went out he left a note stuck to the fridge. And every night he lay in bed for hours, feeling foolish for hoping that Rodney might pay him another late-night visit, and then woke up disappointed the next morning.

On the third day John gratefully accepted Maggie’s invitation to come out to lunch with her. He thought they’d go to the diner and was surprised when she drove them up to Haystack Hill for a picnic at the scenic overlook.

“Does Ben know you’re on a romantic picnic with another man?” John teased, helping spread out the blanket. It was difficult getting it to lay flat with the strong breeze that was coming off the water.

“It’s good to keep him on his toes,” Maggie replied with a grin.

They sat down and tucked into sandwiches, homemade potato salad, and some of Maggie’s famous chocolate cake. John felt nice and relaxed, the sound of the waves soothing him as they always did.

“I really love it here,” he murmured, tipping his head back to finish off his bottle of Dr. Pepper.

“I know what you mean,” Maggie said. “I came here on vacation and never left. That was fifteen years ago.”

John looked out at Haystack Rock and wondered at what moment Cannon Beach had become _home_. Or maybe the better question was when Rodney had become part of that for him. Before they met, or after?

“So how are things going?” Maggie reclined on the blanket, propped up on one arm. “You and Rodney getting along okay?”

“We have our good days.” John sighed. “I don’t know. It’s hard sometimes. And sometimes…it’s not.”

“Yeah, well, that sounds like a relationship to me.”

“I’m not good at relationships. Just ask my ex-wife.” As always, thoughts of Nancy made John feel incredibly inadequate. 

“I didn’t know you were married. How’d that go?” 

“About as good as you’d expect,” John said, his tone full of self-deprecation. “I married her for all the wrong reasons and we made each other miserable for a year and a half before she finally had enough and left me.”

Maggie put her hand on John’s arm. “Sounds pretty bad.”

He shrugged. “It’s not like I didn’t learn anything.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

“Well…uh. Okay. I learned that sex doesn’t fix things.” Not that he hadn’t tried. Boy, had he tried. “Which led to my second lesson.”

“And that was?”

“Girls just don’t do it for me,” John replied with a grin. Maggie smacked his arm.

“Idiot. So how do you want things to go with Rodney?”

John flopped down on the blanket, hands behind his head. “I don’t know, honestly. We had…There was some…God, _please_ don’t make me say it.”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Was there kissing, John? Jeez, you’re a prude.”

“Very funny. And yes, there was kissing. Really good kissing. But…I’m not sure there’ll be any more.”

“Do you want more?”

“Yeah. I think…yeah.” It felt good to say it out loud, to admit that he wanted Rodney, wanted more with Rodney. “I’m just worried. Because what if the two of us are too messed up? He’s got some issues, too, you know, and I can’t tell you what they are, but it might be too much especially if you figure in mine.”

“John. Calm down. Look. Don’t think you have to give up having a real life because you have PTSD. That’s only a small part of you, a part that _will_ get better.” Maggie rolled over on her stomach and rose up on her elbows. “You have every right to be happy.”

John closed his eyes, flushing in embarrassment. He knew she was right but knowing it didn’t make acceptance come any easier. Not to mention that he didn’t know what Rodney wanted.

“Have you talked to him about any of this?”

“Kinda.”

“I think you need something more definitive than _kinda_ , John. Man up and talk to him. Get things straight between the two of you, so that you know what you need to do. You can’t move forward otherwise.”

“I hate you,” John grumbled.

“No, you don’t.”

“No. I don’t.” He agreed and rolled over on his side, pressing a kiss on Maggie’s forehead. “How’d you get so smart?”

“Silly John. I’m a woman. I was born that way.”

*o*o*o*

John opted to walk back to the cottage since it wasn’t all that far from the overlook and it was a nice enough day to get some physical exercise. He felt better for having talked to Maggie. She was right of course – he and Rodney were going to have to talk, talk about things that actually mattered, like feelings. He was dreading it, not only because it just didn’t come naturally to him but also because he didn’t know what Rodney would say.

Several people stopped to offer him a ride home and though he declined it gave him a warm feeling. People there knew him, liked him. It had been like that for him in the Air Force, too, that sense of community and camaraderie. He’d missed it, more than he thought he would. Even if things didn’t work out with Rodney, he knew he couldn’t leave Cannon Beach. 

When he got back to the cottage John was brought up short. There was a black sedan in the driveway with government plates on it, and he knew that couldn’t be good. Even less so when he heard Rodney’s voice raised. He was having an argument with whoever had come in the car and, classified or not, John wasn’t going to leave him in there alone. The government had screwed Rodney over once, he wouldn’t let them do it again.

All the action seemed to be happening in the living room. John slipped through the front door and made his approach as silently as possible, not that anyone would hear him over the noise Rodney was making as he stomped around.

“…choke on it!” Rodney snapped. John hovered uncertainly in the doorway, unnoticed by either his housemate or the blonde woman in the Air Force uniform.

“You’re being unreasonable,” she said, and it was clear to John that she was trying very hard to be patient. He wondered if this was Major Hotlips.

“Unreasonable?!” Rodney was red in the face and looked like he might be on the edge of a stroke. He continued to pace, his arms flailing as he gestured frenetically. “You rushed the program! We weren’t ready. We didn’t have the personnel or any kind of information that would’ve saved our lives. People _died_! Needlessly! And I won’t be part of another ill-fated expedition!”

“This time it’s different, this time we have the gene therapy…”

“Screw your gene therapy and screw Carson Beckett if he thinks that’s a good enough reason to go back! He should know better than anyone!”

John felt a flush of anger wash over him. They wanted to send Rodney back to where his friends had died? Where there was every chance that this time he wouldn’t come back? That was unacceptable and he stepped fully into the room, arms crossed over his chest.

“Rodney’s not going anywhere,” he said. The woman turned, startled, and John saw that in the past two years she’d been promoted to Colonel. His arms twitched as he resisted the urge to salute. That wasn’t his life anymore, he reminded himself.

“John?” Rodney gave him a look of naked relief.

“I’m going to ask you politely to leave,” John said to Colonel Hotlips, the aforementioned lips thinning as she glowered. “Dr. McKay doesn’t work for you anymore.”

“You signed a confidentiality agreement, Rodney,” she said disapprovingly.

“He didn’t tell me anything,” John said before Rodney could protest. “I was Air Force, Colonel, I know the signs of front-line trauma. Please don’t make me ask you again.”

She turned on him, drawing up to her full height. “Major Sheppard, you have no idea how important Dr. McKay is to the success of this mission. He has a unique skill set that could literally change the course of a war.”

John narrowed his eyes at the use of his former rank, though he wasn’t surprised that she’d done her homework before coming to try and woo Rodney back. He was so tired of the military trying to bully people, wear them down until they toed the company line. He was done with it and so was Rodney.

“Dr. McKay is more than his skill set, Colonel. And he’s needed here much more than whatever far-flung warzone you want to send him to.”

“I’m not coming back, Sam,” Rodney said. “And I want to go on the record as saying that you should forget about Pegasus. There’s nothing for us there.”

John moved past the Colonel to stand beside Rodney, showing her a united front. She gave them a speculative look, and then nodded.

“I can’t promise this is the end of it, Rodney. You know what Hammond is like.”

“And I know what Jack is like. I’ll call him if I have to.”

She nodded again, then turned smartly on her heel and walked out. Rodney immediately sagged against John, clutching at his arm.

“Jesus. I can’t believe she came back here, after everything. I can’t believe she expected me to just get back on board like a good little soldier.”

John pulled Rodney to the sofa and sat with him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“I mean, the complete arrogance! And she should _know_ better! The things she’s seen…well, what do I expect from the SGC. Where angels fear to tread. That should be their motto. Maybe if they used their brains…Thank you.” All the tension abruptly left him and he leaned against John, eyes closed. “You didn’t have to do that, but I really appreciate it. I’ve never had anyone do that for me. Stand up for me.”

“Hey. Rodney.” John rested his free hand on Rodney’s chest, feeling the too-fast beating of his heart. “I meant what I said.”

Rodney opened his eyes, and they were so big and so blue. “I know you did,” he said softly.

John wanted to kiss him then, had to fight the impulse to do just that. He wasn’t sure it was the right time, not with how upset Rodney was. And he was pretty sure they needed to have that talk first before they complicated things any further.

“You know, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” Rodney said in that same hushed tone. And then he leaned forward, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed his mouth to John’s. Every argument immediately fled John’s head as he clutched at Rodney’s shirt and pressed forward, immediately deepening the kiss. He felt flushed head to toe, his skin lighting up, and there was a familiar feeling in his gut, one he hadn’t felt in a long while.

“Is this okay?” Rodney murmured against his mouth, not pulling away.

“It’s just like flying,” John breathed out. He captured those lips again, reveling in the taste of them, the feel of them. He swallowed Rodney’s moan, brushed away the wetness on Rodney’s face with his thumbs, and decided that he’d do it all over again, everything, just to get to this moment.

Minutes, or maybe hours, later Rodney kissed his way along John’s jawline until he could rest his head on John’s shoulder. They were nearly horizontal on the couch, wrapped around each other in a way John hadn’t been with anyone since high school. He carded through Rodney’s hair with one hand and rubbed circles on his stomach with the other.

“So,” Rodney said. “I have this survivor guilt thing.”

“PTSD,” John countered.

“Allergic to citrus.”

“Sleepwalking.”

“I can be…difficult.”

“I like a challenge.”

Rodney pressed a kiss into John’s neck. “This could go wrong a lot of ways.”

John slid his hand to Rodney’s hip and squeezed. “Or it could go right. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

He felt Rodney’s chuckle all along his side. “I’m glad we had this talk, Sheppard.”

“Yup. We’re practically a Lifetime movie.” He moved his hand along Rodney’s hip bone until he was cupping the growing hardness in Rodney’s pants. “Or maybe that’s Showtime.”

“Show time is exactly right,” Rodney said.

It was different that time; there was none of the frantic fervor that had ruled them in the dark hours of the night. They took their time, peeling away each layer of clothing and exploring whatever patch of skin was exposed. John learned that Rodney had very sensitive nipples, and Rodney learned that sucking on John’s earlobe was enough to reduce him to wordless groans of pleasure. After they brought each other to climax they remained tangled up, dozing together on the couch in a patch of warm sunshine. It was pretty close to perfect.

*o*o*o*

**Ten Months Later**

John drove home from the Seaside airport, feeling more than pleased with himself. His first airplane tour of the Oregon coast had been a spectacular success and he knew word would start to spread. Hell, Rodney had taken out every kind of ad he could think of to promote the tours, though John had drawn the line at attaching a banner to the plane.

He was feeling pretty pleased with his life, all things considered. He’d gotten the sky back, which he knew made him grin like a lunatic at odd times. He was off the Ambien – turned out he slept a hell of a lot better and was less apt to wander with Rodney sharing his bed – and while he still had the Ativan he needed to use it much less than he had been. And he had Rodney, who could still be prickly and defensive and impossible, but who insisted that they never go to bed mad and had battled his fear of flying long enough to participate in John’s inaugural flight in the plane Rodney had helped him buy.

John pulled up in the driveway, parking behind the Prius. Rodney had a few weeks of downtime before summer classes started at Clatsop. After much soul-searching he’d decided to bestow the gift of his genius on their tiny Physics department. John had no doubt that in another year or two, future physicists from all over the country would be sending their applications there.

Rodney was sitting out on the porch, a cat-and-canary expression on his face that instantly put John on alert. He got out of the truck, slung his messenger bag over his shoulder, and went to join his partner.

“How’d it go?” Rodney asked when John sat beside him on the wicker loveseat. “Any problems?”

“Nope. Everything went smooth as silk.” John mimed the take-off with his hand. “The Brinkersons had a great time.”

“That’s good.” Rodney nodded, but he had a solemn look on his face. In fact, he was trying really hard at keeping it in place, but John could see the corners of his mouth trembling.

“Something on your mind, buddy?”

“Your…uh…your lease is up.”

John nodded, playing along. “You’re right. I guess I should start looking for a new place, huh? There’s a cute little cottage farther up the beach I’ve had my eye on.”

Rodney shoved an envelope in his hand. “Well, before you start looking at fabric swatches, maybe you should look at this.”

John opened it warily. With Rodney you never knew what might be inside. He had a way of rigging envelopes so that little balls of paper or a billion tiny pieces of confetti would come springing out. But this envelope only held a piece of plain, ordinary paper. It was, in fact, a copy of the deed to the cottage, and it suddenly became far less ordinary when John saw that his name had been added to it, listed right beneath M. Rodney McKay.

“Rodney, what…what did you…?”

Rodney lost the battle with solemn, now looking equal parts happy and anxious. “It’s been our place since you moved in. I’m just making it official. But I don’t want you feel tied down or anything, I mean that’s not why I did it.”

John carefully folded the paper back up and stuffed it in the envelope, which he set on top of his bag. “I know why you did it.”

He cupped Rodney’s face in his hands and kissed him, soft and sweet. Right there on the porch where anyone could see because it turned out most people in Cannon Beach didn’t care, they were glad to see that John and Rodney were happy. It was the freest John had ever felt.

“Don’t think this absolves you from doing housework,” Rodney said, snuggling up. “I still expect clean floors.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Hey. Can I…uh…can I ask you something?”

“You know you can.”

Rodney fell silent for a long minute and John waited him out. “I was wondering if you’d consider signing the SGC’s confidentiality papers.”

John couldn’t help but tense up at the mention of the SGC. He hadn’t been able to find much information about them online, and all of his inquiries always ended up at the same place – with General Jack O’Neill, who never seemed to be available to take his call.

Rodney wrapped an arm around John’s waist and gave him a squeeze. “Please don’t do that. I just…if you signed the agreement I could tell you about what happened. Where I was. And I think…I think I’m ready to talk about it now.”

John held him tightly, his eyes burning just a little as he fought back the tears that crowded there. He knew this was a big step for Rodney and he’d do whatever he needed to do to help him work through the events of those two years.

“Okay,” he said, that one word barely making it through the tightness in his throat. 

“I love you, you know.”

John lost his capacity for speech. Rodney didn’t say those words often and John treasured them. He kissed Rodney, who was so skilled at knowing all the things John had trouble saying, and he knew this was it for him. This was his life and would always be, because there was no life for him without Rodney in it.

They stayed out there on the porch and watched the sun go down over the ocean, and John finally asked the question that had been bothering him for just about a year now.

“Hey, what does the ‘M’ stand for in M. Rodney McKay?”

Rodney huffed out a laugh. “It’s gonna take more than a confidentiality agreement for you to get _that_ information, my friend.”

“Is that a challenge, Dr. McKay?”

“It could be construed as such, Mr. Sheppard.”

John laughed and got to his feet, pulling Rodney up with him. “I can have you begging to tell me in fifteen minutes.”

“You get me begging in ten and I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Rodney promised with a leer. He broke away and ran inside, taking the stairs two at a time. “But you have to catch me first!”

John didn’t bother telling him that it didn’t matter if he caught Rodney, because Rodney had caught him first, through the pages of his journal. That was when John had really started falling in love with him. Sight unseen.

**Author's Note:**

>  **AN:** The original idea for this fic came to me while I was cooking dinner. I was thinking of an SGA fic I read where Rodney was a ghost in John’s new apartment. Then I was thinking about the movie Lake House (Sandra Bullock  & Keanu Reeves, so awesome). So I kind of put those two ideas together and shook them up and this is what came out. 
> 
> I decided, after all these years, to repost this fic because a) I needed to seek and destroy the roughly eight million semicolons, and b) this fic is partly why Taste and I became friends all those years ago. She fangirled over this fic just the way I fangirled over [Keepsakes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/623234). For Taste's birthday I wanted to dust this off, shine it up a bit, and put it out there on its own. I might also have some other related plans. ::looks mysteriously off into middle distance::
> 
> **Songlist**
> 
> [Folsom Prison Blues by Johnny Cash](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bDktBZzQIiU)
> 
> [Hurt by Johnny Cash](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vt1Pwfnh5pc)
> 
> [Malagueña by Brian Setzer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F-Mu10LlFIw)


End file.
